


Sword of Mages Tattoo

by RooBadley



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, And also Shepard is there, Banter, Bisexual Simon Snow, Cussing, First Kiss, Innuendo, M/M, Mentions of Ebb, Oblivious Simon Snow, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Tattoo Artist Baz Pitch, Tattoo Artist Penelope Bunce, Tattoo Artist Simon Snow, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28725918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RooBadley/pseuds/RooBadley
Summary: Sword of Mages Tattoo caters to a niche clientele. No walk-ins, no flash, and absolutely no mentions of Basilton Pitch.Until, that is, he's suddenly back from the continent, standing in their shop, and in need of a space to work.Will Simon be able to set aside his grudge from art school and act like a professional adult? Probably not.Will Baz be able to stop grinding his teeth in frustration whenever Simon's shirt hitches up while he's working? Definitely not.Will Penny and Shepard figure things out before these two morons? Oh, absolutely.
Relationships: Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 444
Kudos: 320





	1. What's he doing here?

**Simon**

Penny is hovering. She wants to speak with me. 

She finished with her last client over an hour ago and is finding stupid jobs to do around the shop now. I swear, she’s emptied the same bin at least 3 times. 

I wish she’d just spit it out, I can talk and tattoo at the same time. Walk and chew gum, too. I mean, not at the same time I’m tattooing, but you know what I mean. I’m capable of multitasking. She could just say what she needs to say. 

Which means what she has to say is something she can’t say in present company. Meaning the stranger I’m currently tattooing. Jane? I think her name is Jane. I’m crap with names. 

I set my machine to the side, wipe the client’s arm clean, and snap off my gloves, launching them into the bin. Penny will be excited by that, now she can empty the bin for a fourth time!

“All finished. Want to have a look?” I ask, cracking the stiffness in my neck. We’ve been at this 4 hours now. Not continuously, but even with regular breaks my whole body feels stiff and awful. 

This bit is always tricky for me. I have to come out of my tattooing fugue state and remember to be a professional. 

I’m shit at being a professional. 

Show them the finished work, Simon. Explain aftercare. Take photos. Get paid.

You’d be shocked how many times I forget one or more of the above. 

I gesture to the mirror hanging on the exposed stone wall across the shop. The customer, Maybe-Jane, goes over to inspect my work. 

“Shiiiiit,” she breathes. 

I’m good. My work is tight. The colors on this piece sit beautifully against the client’s dark brown skin. 

“You like it?” 

“I love it. It’s incredible. Like, I knew it would be good, but this is…” she gets a bit sniffly. That happens sometimes. It can be a cathartic experience getting tattooed. Sometimes it all comes bubbling to the surface and you gotta cry it out. At least, that's what Ebb always said. Hell, sometimes she'd share the cathartic cry with the client.

I hold out the box of tissues I keep at my station. She takes a couple and blows her nose. 

Penny comes around the corner to see what all the blubbering is about. 

“Nice colors, Simon,” she says. “That’s gorgeous.” 

“Thanks, Pen,” I unlock my phone. I will remember to get photos this time. I will. I will. 

“Mind if I take some pictures? Just of the tattoo, no faces or anything.” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Probably-Jane says, before taking one last look at her arm in the mirror. 

It’s a fairly large piece that takes up most of her upper arm. I wouldn’t call it a half sleeve, but it’s close. Full fantasy, of course, that’s my specialty. That’s what they travel for. Most-Likely-Jane came here for a pastel unicorn rearing up against a blazing sunset. Both the sun and the moon are out at once and there are subtle blazes of starlight and magic surrounding the body of the animal. I got the color of the magical blazes perfect, no outlines, just a beautiful mix from white to yellow that almost seems to sparkle on her skin.

That’s why my clients are willing to travel, that’s why they pay so much. I can make it look like there is living, breathing magic inked into their skin. I press my magic into them. Pushing it deep into their skin. I let them keep some of my magic forever.

Penny holds out her hand. “Here, let me. I know you hate this part.”

“Thanks, Pen. I don’t hate it, I’m just rubbish at it.” 

Penny laughs, snapping on our ring light. “Go clean up your station.” 

Penny and Definitely-Jane (she said her name to Penny!) chat as they take pictures. Then I hear Penny explain aftercare with her usual no-nonsense style. 

“It will itch. You will want to scratch. Don’t. If you fuck it up by scratching I’ll know and I won’t let him touch it up for free. He’s nice. I’m mean. I’ll make you pay.”

“Got it, got it,” Jane laughs. 

Penny even gloves back up and wraps the client’s arm before taking care of the payment and tip. 

Christ, whatever she wants to talk about must be bad for her to do all that. 

The bell on the door rings and Shepard comes in. 

“Hey Simon! How’s life?” 

“Pretty good! Just finishing up here, and I can tell Penny wants to talk with me about something Super Serious. Are you here as backup? So I won’t go off?” 

“Ha! Yup. Nailed it,” Shepard flops down on Penny’s tattoo chair and pulls out his phone. We all met a few years ago at a tattoo convention in Omaha he helped organize. We had no clue why we were invited, but it felt big-time, until we actually got to Omaha and realized nobody in their right mind calls Omaha big-time.

Penny got Shepard out of it, though, and we got to meet and tattoo some interesting people. All-in-all an 8/10 trip. (I was a bit let down by the Cheesecake Factory in all honesty. It was not a factory of cheesecake by any definition. And the chips were soggy.)

Penny sees my client to the door and swings the sign to closed. 

“Alright, Penny, what is it?” I ask. She holds out a fat stack of bills for me. I don't bother counting them and lock them up in the cart at my work station to worry about tomorrow.

She sits down on her rolling chair and clears her throat. 

“Simon, you’re my best friend in the entire world.”

“Are you two moving to the states?!”

“Hell no, my dude, the healthcares too good here! If Penny wants to move to the states she’s gonna be doing it on her own,” Shepard says, without looking up from his phone. 

“Then what is it?” I ask, sitting down heavily on my own rolling stool. I roll closer to Penny, for some reason this feels like a conversation we should be close for, even if I don’t know what we’re talking about yet. 

“You know how we’ve been discussing bringing in a third artist to the shop? Someone with a complementary style who could help round us out?” Penny’s voice sounds optimistic, but I know she’s hiding something. 

“Aw, shit, it's an apprentice isn't it? We agreed no more apprentices after the Phillipa disaster,” I shake my head. 

And what a disaster it was. Penny took her on as an apprentice, but you’d think we’d hired her to be my personal shadow. She was always in my business, underfoot, and uncomfortably creeping into my space. She was a step away from getting chucked out on her arse when she up and disappeared. Total and complete silence. She wouldn’t return any of Penny’s calls, wouldn’t respond to texts or emails, nothing. No communication. We knew she was fine because we saw her in Tesco a couple weeks after she ghosted us. 

After that we both agreed, no more apprentices. 

“He’s not an apprentice. He’s licensed. And good. Really fucking good, Simon. It’s kind of a big deal he even agreed to meet with us. He’s back in the UK looking for a shop to work out of, so I offered to let him come by and take a look.” 

The bells above the shop door jangle. 

“Sorry, shops closed, mate,” I call out before turning to see what idiot wandered in despite the closed sign clearly on the door. 

I stand, and my rolling stool crashes to the floor at my feet.

Baz. Baz fucking Pitch. 

  
  


**Penny**

Ok, so this is not going as badly as I thought it would. Nobody’s thrown a punch or invented a new combination of profanities so vile it’s made me throw up. They’re just standing there staring at one another. 

“What the fuck is _he_ doing here?” Simon growls. 

Alright, so maybe it’s not going great, but it’s not as bad as it could be. 

The last time these two were in a room together they nearly wound up at A&E. That’s been years though. Surely that’s all water under the bridge now? Surely. 

Simon and Baz were roommates first year when we were all at art college and, disastrously, shared studio space next to one another. It ended about as horribly as humanly possible. They were petty and cruel to one another. Simon snapped the nose off a bust Baz was sculpting. Baz pushed Simon at the top of a staircase causing him to drop a finished canvas down the stairs, ripping a hole in it. Simon retaliated with a dead rat left in Baz’s box of oil paints. And the cycle continued. And continued...

In retrospect, perhaps this was a bad idea. 

No. No, this was an excellent idea. These two idiots somehow both wound up working as tattoo artists, that has to mean something, right? It feels like a portent. Here Baz is, back in the country and looking for a space in which to work, us looking for a third anyway. It just makes sense. 

Baz is clearly willing to put it all behind him. If I can just convince Simon to do the same. 

“I said, what the fuck are you doing here?” Simon snarls again.

“Snow. You always were eloquent,” Baz raises his eyebrow at Simon before walking surely over to me and extending his hand. 

“Lovely to see you, Bunce. Thank you for the invitation.” 

“Nope!” Simon spits from where he’s standing. “I’m not having this.”

“Simon, please,” I try to make my voice forceful, not whiny. I thought we would be past this pettiness. I also thought Baz might be a little later. I did tell him 6:30pm and it’s barely a quarter past now. A little more time to get Simon ready might have been helpful, but the toothpaste is out of the tube now. The shit is out of the cat. Baz Pitch is in the studio. 

“Simon, take a deep breath. We’re all adults, we’re all professionals. And,” I narrow my eyes at him, hoping I come off as intimidating, but worrying he sees through me. “We’re co-owners of this shop, so I have as much a right to invite someone here as you.” 

Simon crosses his arms across his chest and continues to glare at Baz. 

“This is my husband Shepard,” I gesture over my shoulder. Shepard jumps up and reaches out to shake Baz’s hand. 

“Nice to meet you, Baz. I’m a big fan of your work.” 

Baz holds Shepard’s hand, turning it over to look at the tattoos that crawl up his forearm and disappear under his shirt. I’m responsible for those. The black vines roping up his arms, interspersed with runes, all crisscrossing and weaving together until they reach his heart. 

He’d been cursed with some truly hideous, disconnected tattoos on his arms. I brought it all together with the vines. He says I worked my magic on him. I just have an eye for it. I’m good with coverups. I’m good at reworking someone’s tragic ink into something beautiful.

“I’m a fan of your work as well,” Baz says, eyeing Shepard’s tattoos, before turning to smile at me. 

I can’t help but smile and feel flattered. Baz was always very charming. To everyone but Simon, that is. 

“So, this is the space. It’s not massive, but it’s a good size. Like I said in my message, we’re off the main road so we avoid most foot traffic, which I know you were interested in.”

Simon snorts. “You too good for walk-ins, Pitch?” 

“ _You’re_ too good for walk-ins, Simon,” I shake my head at him before turning back to Baz. “We’re appointment only and have no plans of changing. We open our books quarterly and spots fill up fast.” 

Baz nods. I know I’m bragging, but I deserve it. _We_ deserve it. We’ve worked hard to get where we are. If I don’t toot our horn, who will? 

“My waitlist for a cancelation is about 100 people deep at this point. Simon, what about yours?” 

He’s still glaring at Baz, but he manages to unclench his jaw long enough to spit out the word “80.”

“Hmm, well, that’s big of you to admit yours isn’t as large as Bunce’s,” Baz responds archly, and Simon turns so red I’m surprised smoke doesn’t start pouring from his ears.

“Shepard assists with email and bookings sometimes, but mostly we handle our own social media, websites, and clientele.”

Baz nods. "I appreciate that autonomy."

“Let me show you the shop, then.”

I give him a tour, which doesn’t take long. It’s a modest, but extremely nice space. We’re an open floor plan studio with some exposed stone walls and brick work, lots of plants hanging from the ceiling and spilling down over the walls, or standing in tall pots helping separate our work spaces. We have some of our framed prints and original art hanging around the shop, as well as shelving units with curios. Simon has an easel and we both have small drafting tables towards the back, which we use as our studio to work on more serious art.

There’s a tall wooden bookcase towards the front waiting area with large art and reference books, and more plants. We have a teal velvet settee by the front window for waiting customers and their friends, and a small counter that holds our portfolios and a stack of business cards which we can use when booking new clients or discussing art. Both Simon and I keep a display rack with prints up at the front. 

It’s a nice shop. It looks classy, it smells nice, and it’s clean. We appeal to a certain niche clientele. This is not the place your 16 year old cousin went for her tramp stamp of a butterfly. No flash. Nobody else’s art. Just us. Everything custom.

That’s all the stuff a client would care about though. Baz cares about how the sausage is made, so I show him our autoclave and sterilization equipment, the storage closet with spare cleaning supplies and overflow materials. He avoids looking in Simon’s direction, which is good since Simon is still giving off big “GET FUCKED” energy. 

Baz nods and follows me around, asking all the right questions about our cleaning rotation and supplies. I can tell he’s impressed when I show him the record books we keep for the autoclave, and the cleaning schedule for the shop.

“Most everything is disposable now, but you know. We like to be safe.” 

“Mmm, yes,” Baz nods, finally sparing a glance in Simon’s direction. 

Simon’s flopped down on his tattoo chair now, not the rolling one he sits on when working on a client, but the plush chair for the client. He’s cranked it flat and is laying on his back, one leg splayed out over the side of the chair, arms behind his head. His shirt is rucked up a bit, revealing snatches of colorful tattoos on his stomach.

“Where do you envision me working?” Baz asks, looking around the shop. 

“You know what I envision?” Simon starts. Oh no.

But he doesn’t continue. He rolls his head to the side to look at Baz, still laying down on his back. Still looking like he couldn’t give less of a fuck and yet somehow, simultaneously, giving all of the fucks.

The two hold eye contact for a long, tense moment, Simon where he’s laying, Baz where he’s standing.

“Perhaps this was a mistake,” Baz says, still staring at Simon. 

“Yes, _perhaps_ it was,” Simon replies. 

“Please, guys, could we try to be civil? Could we at least consider this?” I plead. Shepard reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. I needed that. 

“No, you know what? We’re going to be better than civil. Simon, get out your iPad.” 

“The fuck?” 

“Get out your iPad, you’re going to look at Baz’s website. If his work doesn’t convince you, nothing will.” 

Simon huffs and puffs and Shepard, helpfully, passes me my iPad with Baz’s website already loaded on it. 

I love that man. 

**Simon**

I know what Baz’s website looks like. I’ve seen his art. Of course I have. 

It’s like everything else about Baz, isn’t it? Bloody brilliant. Perfect. Infuriating. 

All he does is blackwork. His tattoos all look like etchings, like Albrecht Dürer woodcut prints. And it makes sense, because that’s what Baz does, his art form outside of tattooing, etchings. Printmaking.

I mean. Come on. Etchings? Etchings?? Who even does etchings anymore, other than Baz? How is that still an art form? Ridiculous posh wanker, can’t even paint in acrylic or oils like a normal person, has to do etchings on copper plates. What a berk. 

His linework is otherworldly, though. I don’t know how he does it. How he manages to avoid massive blurring and fading when they heal is beyond me. I’ve seen pictures of his healed work and it’s still gorgeous, even his early stuff, even years later. 

I’ve kept up with his career. I know he moved to Berlin to try and partner with a big gallery there and it didn’t work out, which is why he’s standing in my studio now. 

This is why I didn’t want to look up Baz’s website on my iPad. They’d both see it was bookmarked. See his name in my search history.

It’s purely professional. Gotta study his stuff to see how he does it. 

I look thoughtful and pretend I'm seeing his work for the first time. I nod as Penny points out things I’ve seen before. Baz is startlingly silent throughout. 

I’ll give him a compliment. One. That’s all he’ll get from me. 

“Your linework is precise.”

“Thank you, Snow.”

“Simon. My name’s Simon.” 

Why does he never bother to use my first name? It’s obnoxious. Everything about Baz is. His obnoxious shiny black chelsea boots, his straight legged black jeans that he probably gets tailored to fit like that. His stupid black jacket that's definitely designer and cost more than everything I’m wearing. Probably more than my best tattoo machine. At least his obnoxious hair looks better now, he used to slick it back when we were in school together. He’s letting it fall around his face in waves now. It looks better that way. He looks more approachable. 

Well, as approachable as he could possibly look being a completely pretentious artist who makes etchings and charged €200 an hour at the last tattoo shop he worked.

It's not far off from what Penny and I charge per hour, but still.

Penny is staring at me expectantly, a pleading look in her eye. 

“Fine. But I’m not moving my shit around to make space for him.” 

“Well. It’s yours if you want it,” Penny says, beaming at Baz.

**Baz**

It’s mine if I want it. 

Well, Bunce, there’s an awful lot I want in this shop right now, so what exactly are you offering? A workspace? A job? A chance to start over? Another glimpse at the delicious curve of Simon Snow’s stomach as he lays prone before me? 

Yes to all of the above, please. 

Crowley, this is a terrible idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Baz still says 'Crowley' as a cuss. That remains unchanged.
> 
> Also unchanged? My ability to ham-fistedly shove as many canonical references into this AU as possible. *cracks knuckles* Brace for it!
> 
> Will update every 2 days or so until finished. Majority of the story is written, just gotta decide if the rating changes. :/


	2. Constant Bickering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poncy tattoo chairs, business cards, and "professional research".  
> Baz's first week at the shop is going swimmingly, if you ignore the constant bickering and antagonism between him and Simon.

**Simon**

Turns out it wasn’t all a terrible fever dream, Baz _is_ actually working here. I can’t believe I let Penny strong-arm me into it with her plump little strong arms.

She can be terrifying when she wants to be. 

Baz is waiting outside the shop right now. He’s expecting delivery of some poncy tattoo chair. 

Penny showed it to me online. It’s ridiculous. Each of the legs can be adjusted separately. Separately! It’s unnecessary. It’s over the top. 

I’m extremely jealous of it. 

Of course I am. A more comfortable chair means the client can handle longer sessions. I could bang out some of these jobs that take multiple visits in one go. 

And in between clients I could lay that beauty back and nap on it. Totally unprofessional, but hey. Doesn’t scrawling my drawings into people’s skin for a living mean I get to opt out of some professionalism? No suits at least. Still have to pay taxes though.

I’m between clients, sketching some ideas out on my iPad, but mostly I’ve been watching Baz. It’s drizzling outside so he has the hood of his jacket pulled up. He’s just a grey smudge in the window of the shop. 

He’s been here all week, setting up his space, rearranging my carefully arranged life to suit his whims. In that time I’ve yet to see any visible tattoos on him. There’s something wrong about that.

There’s some faded ink on the palms of his hands that I can’t quite make out, so I don’t think that counts. They might as well be smudges of marker pen. Hell, they very well might be. 

Shouldn’t a tattoo artist have visible tattoos? I feel like there’s an unwritten rule that a tattoo artist should have visible tattoos. His wardrobe is all baggy jumpers and dark long sleeve shirts buttoned up to the collar and cuffs, even when he’s lugging heavy equipment or boxes into the shop. He never pushes up his sleeves or peels off his jumper. I know. I watch.

I want to pop his top few buttons and see what’s underneath.

He turns to look back into the shop, and I focus intently on my iPad, making a few quick marks with my pen before deleting the sketch. It was shit anyway. 

When I look back up again he’s holding the door open and directing two delivery men carrying a massive box between them.

Baz shakes their hands when they’re done, clearly passing some money to them. Posh wanker. 

He hangs his coat on a hook by the loo, ties his hair in a bun, and sets to work unboxing his ridiculous chair. I watch as a knife appears from nowhere and he neatly slices through the tape and packaging. 

He removes one piece at a time, inspecting each before arranging them neatly on the floor. Even that simple act infuriates me. Why doesn’t he just dump them all out and start bunging it together like a normal person? 

I can’t help the groan that escapes me when he sits down on his rolling stool and pulls out the assembly book to read the instructions. 

“Problem, Snow?”

“Nope. Just watching you win the prize for slowest ever assembly of a chair. I’d hate to see you with flatpack furniture.” 

“I’d hate to see me with flatpack furniture, too, Snow. But that’s a taste issue.”

I snort. “Of course it is,” and add a “ya posh twat,” under my breath for good measure. 

He raises an eyebrow. Of course he heard. I forgot how good his hearing is. Inhuman. 

Then again _he_ didn’t grow up inflicting years of damage to his hearing by staying out too late at loud, rowdy gigs and getting boxed around the ears by the older boys in care. He probably spent his childhood learning Latin, being hugged, and getting annual hearing and vision checks. 

Posh. Twat. 

I set the stopwatch on my phone. Let’s see how long it takes before he cries trying to put this together.

  
  


**Baz**

Three hours. 

It takes me three hours to assemble the chair. 

I take breaks. I stop in the middle and buy a sandwich. (It’s awful, but I wasn’t about to ask Simon for vegan restaurant recommendations. Can you imagine?)

It’s gorgeous when it’s finished. I test out the separate hydraulics that adjust the back and legs of the chair. Then I remove the arms. They’re useless. I’ll set them in the storage cupboard in the back and forget I own them just like I did with my last chair. I should throw them away now and save myself the confusion of discovering them later and wondering what they are. 

I notice Simon leaves the arms on his chair. Typical.

Simon’s watching, I see him from the corner of my eye. He’s taken a break so his client can go outside and smoke and is loudly sipping his tea and pretending not to see me.

I crank all the levers and put the chair completely flat before laying down on it. 

The sigh that escapes me is both involuntary and lascivious. 

“That good?” Simon asks, eyebrows raised over his cuppa. 

“Exceptional,” I reply. Then, against my better judgement, I sit up and ask “You want a go?”

He looks at me for a moment before setting down his tea and crossing the room. 

“Yeah, alright. Let’s see what the fuss is about.” 

“How do you want it?” I ask, letting the words hang heavy in the air. I didn’t mean to say something so rich with innuendo, but Simon doesn’t seem to have noticed.

“If this was good enough for you, it’s good enough for me,” he pulls himself onto the chair and lays down on his back. The loud popping of his spine echoes in the room as he stretches out. 

“This work is killer on the back, isn’t it?” I offer, as he closes his eyes and sighs, no less lasciviously than I did. 

“So true,” Simon breathes, still not opening his eyes. I allow myself to look at him. I’ve indulged in that a lot over the past week. 

Not much has changed in the near decade since we last saw one another. He’s still a freckle-faced nightmare. He’s broader, filled out a bit, but he still looks like he could take anyone in a scrap. 

His hair is better, that’s for sure. Looks like he goes to a proper barber now, instead of butchering it himself with clippers the way I remember. He wears it short on the sides and keeps a mess of brown curls on top, short enough to stay out of his eyes when he’s working, but long enough that I want to sink my fingers into it and pull. I imagine what it would feel like. I imagine the sound he’d make. 

If I’m honest, I’ve done quite a lot of imagining.

The biggest change between the Simon I knew at art college and the Simon I see now, is that this Simon is brighter, this Simon glows. He seems less burdened by life. He has a lightness of spirit which I’m drawn to. 

Plus, he’s literally brighter. He’s covered in bright tattoos, vibrant color marks his arms and what I can see of his chest. He had a few awful tattoos when I knew him, truly tragic pieces of work. In our year as roommates he gave himself several more.

The memory of him working on stick and poke tattoos on his legs in our shared room first year floods back to me. I can see him perfectly, clad only in his boxers and socks, needle in hand, ink on his nightstand, and the pink tip of his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, breathing hard as he worked. His pain tolerance has always been frighteningly high. And my tolerance for his hard breathing has always been frighteningly low.

I look down to see blue eyes locked on mine. 

“You’re staring,” Simon says, pulling himself up and off the chair.

“At your tattoos. Purely professional. Speaking of professional,” I nod at the door where Simon’s client is just now returning. 

“Back to it,” Simon nods. “That chairs alright,” he grunts in my direction as he walks off. 

Well, that’s practically a song of praise from Simon Snow. 

  
  


**Simon**

“Mind if I borrow your iPad to look something up?” Baz asks, suddenly beside me at my drafting table. When did he get here? I thought it was just Penny and I today. 

“Why can’t you use your phone?”

“I don’t have it on me. I cracked the screen and it’s being fixed down the street. They’re taking forever.” 

“You cracked your screen?” I can’t imagine Baz doing anything that isn’t lithe and graceful. He’d never drop a phone and crack the screen. 

Mine’s a bloody spider’s web.

“Why can’t you use Penny’s?”

“Penny’s not here.”

I look around. Oh. She’s not. Guess I got a bit caught up in my work. Must have blinked out for a bit there. It happens.

“It’s fine, Snow, nevermind.” 

I dip my brush in water, clean it and set it aside before unlocking the drawer I keep my iPad in.

Then I turn my body so Baz can’t see the screen. He doesn’t need to see that I still have his website pulled up in several tabs, photos blown up on each, stretched and zoomed to fill the screen.

It’s research. Professional research.

I’m trying to figure out which pictures on his website are of him, so I can sus out which tattoos are his. I still haven’t seen a whisper of them in reality. Not a hint, outside those inky smudges on his palms that I’m certain now are tattoos. They would have washed away by now if they were sharpie. 

On his website I feel like I’ve narrowed it down to a few likely photos of tattoos on forearms, a few legs, and a couple thighs. 

Christ. I sound like I’m ordering a bucket of chicken. 

I clear my search history, cookies, and cache before handing it over. 

“Clearing away something naughty, Snow?” He asks with an arched eyebrow.

“No,” I grump. 

“There’s no shame. It’s perfectly natural to be curious about the changes your body is going through.” 

“Piss off,” I say. I’m too distracted from my work to restart. Instead I sharpen my pencils, even though they don’t need it. 

He taps and swipes and taps again, furrowing his brow. 

“Something wrong?” I ask, characteristically curious, but uncharacteristically willing to admit it. 

“No,” he says, but he’s biting the corner of his lip and chewing aggressively. 

“What is it?”

“I’m anxiously awaiting some of my belongings I shipped back from Germany, but they seem to be lost somewhere between Berlin and the eighth layer of hell. I was supposed to get an email with the contact information of someone at customs who could help me sort all this out.” 

“Oh. That sucks,” I offer. 

“Indeed,” Baz says, tapping a few more times before handing my device back to me. “Thanks, Snow. That was kind of you.” 

“I’m not a complete arse.” 

“No, you’re not a _complete_ arse.” 

That’s the kindest thing Baz Pitch has ever said to me. 

Before we can get too sentimental Penny rushes in the door, a box in hand. 

“They’re here!” She shouts, slamming it down triumphantly on the counter. 

“What’s here?” I wipe my hands on the legs of my jeans and join her. Baz fusses around at his station. 

“Baz’s cards for the shop.” 

“What?” Both he and I say at the same time. 

“Business cards. You know. For the business of which Baz is now a part,” Penny looks at us like we’ve both gone full-muppet.

“I don’t recall ordering business cards,” Baz says, joining us at the counter. 

“That’s because you didn’t. I took the liberty.”

He stands there silently. What a tosser.

“You’re welcome,” Penny says confidently, shoving a card into each of our hands. They’re nice. Very nice. They match the ones Penny had made for her and I. Thick matte black cardstock, with shiny raised silver letters that have Baz’s name, the phone number of the shop, and all his social media accounts. I flip it over and across the back is our shop’s name and logo. A sword, with vining wild roses just starting to bud, and the name: Sword of Mages Tattoo. 

“Thank you, Penny,” Baz says, turning the card between his long, thin fingers. “These are lovely.”

“Consider it a welcome present,” she says, pulling out a chunk of cards and adding them to the stand on the front counter. 

She lines our names up next to one another. Alphabetical order. (By last name so she’s first.) (Of course.)

Bunce. Pitch. Snow. 

“Now we match,” she says confidently, slapping a hand out to rest on both Baz’s and my shoulders.

  
  


**Baz**

It takes all of 9 days for Snow to bring up Agatha. I can’t even remember how we got here, but here we are. Yelling about Agatha. 

She would absolutely _love_ knowing she’s still the center of attention. 

“Of all the ridiculous- I told you _nothing happened_ , Snow. It was a purely artistic arrangement.”

“Mate, I walked in on you painting _my girlfriend_ , who was modeling for you _nude_ , and then you had the cheek to submit it as your piece in the end of term show!"

That was a masterful power move, if I do say. My painting of Agatha, while filled with artistic merit, was by far and away not my best work. But submitting it to the student showcase instead of something else meant that all night Simon’s eyes were on me. I dominated his thoughts. 

I was petty and I craved his attention.

Simon’s worked up to full bluster, now. The tips of his ears are red. I wonder if I can make his chest turn red, too. His flannel shirt is unbuttoned low enough I’d be able to tell.

Apparently I am still petty. Get it together, Basilton!

“She offered to sit for me, Snow. She was an artist, I was an artist. It was a logical arrangement. I offered to return the favor and sit for her.”

There it is. Full flush all the way down to his clavicle. 

“You bloody well know it doesn’t make it better that you got your cock out in front of my girlfriend!” 

“Unclutch your pearls, Snow. She politely declined my offer. Don’t worry, the sanctity of a relationship that’s been over for a decade remains intact.” 

“Fucking hell. You know she broke up with me for you, right? And then you had the utter brass ones to turn her down.” 

I snort through my nose. It’s very unseemly. “Agatha, how do I put this, _lacked certain elements I require_ in a partner.” 

Snow practically growls. Wait, does he think I’m insulting her? Is he really this obtuse? Oh, the poor dear lovely boy. 

“Agatha was a perfectly-” he starts to wind up in defense of a girl who chucked him to the kerb ten years ago. Loyal to a fault, this one.

“I’m queer, Snow. I never liked Agatha because I’ve never liked girls. Surely you knew that. I always presumed that’s part of why you were such a prick to me when we lived together.” 

“I’m not--I wasn’t--” he stammers and stutters, then grabs hold of his hair and tugs. “I’m not homophobic, Baz. I’m bisexual!”

Well. That _is_ a revelation. 

“Internalized homophobia is a serious problem in the queer community, Snow.” 

“What are we talking about?” Penny says, coming in the back door of the shop and dropping her bag at her work station. 

“Snow’s internalized homophobia,” I say at the same time Simon says “Agatha.”

“Agatha? Huh. I wonder how she’s doing.” 

“Last I heard she was living in California doing raku pottery. She uses horsehair in it or something.” 

“Well, good for her,” Penny says. “She was always a little too into horses for me.”

“Agreed,” I nod emphatically. 

Simon groans weakly from his work station. “Penny, please tell Baz I’m not a homophobe.” 

“Baz, Simon is not a homophobe. In fact, quite the opposite. Why, just last month at the pub I had to pry him off-”

“ALRIGHT. THAT’S ENOUGH,” Simon shouts. 

Penny dissolves into laughter while Simon bangs around his workstation, making an unholy racket. 

I lean over to Bunce and whisper, so Simon won’t hear me. “I’d like to hear the rest of that story sometime, Bunce. In lurid detail.”

She winks at me and whispers, “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think my favorite way to include Agatha in a fic is to go "Oh her? She's in California."  
> It's what she would want: to be left alone in California no matter what the situation. AU in space? Planet California. Middle Ages AU? She's gone on a crusade...to California. Piracy AU? She mutinied and joined another ship. It's called the HMS California and it's super fuckin' chill.


	3. The Truce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the goading and antagonism has built to it's logical breaking point. Baz is a rubbish vegan. And Penny might be onto something...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up! CW: mention of a scarification body mod which includes vague mentions of blood. Skip the paragraph that starts: "Penny’s just emerged from the storage closet..." if that'll bother you, but it's a very brief mention. This note is probably more triggering, tbh. :/ Cripes, I struggle with whether or not to warn for stuff that seems really mild, so please let me know if it's helpful or not.

**Simon**

The problem with sharing a tattoo studio with your nemesis is he’s always there, taking up space, smelling like cedar and bergamot, and inking ridiculously good tattoos into other people’s skin. 

Baz is all set up now and finally seeing clients. In the end I did have to move some of my stuff around, but not too much. Penny and I are set up on one side of the studio, Baz on the other, with our easels and drafting tables in the space behind him. Baz and I work across from one another. If I kicked off with a little force I could roll my stool smoothly into Baz's workspace and slap him, if I wanted to.

Most days I want to.

It’s infuriating to have him always there in my periphery. I can only hope I’m just as annoying in his.

He’s there now, going into hour three of some long, detailed piece. He’s been booked up pretty much from the moment he landed back in England. He’s even had a client from Berlin fly in to get their work finished. 

I don’t know why it bothers me so much. Penny and I have clients who travel to us from other countries: France. Sweden. Slough. 

Penny had some bloke from Texas just last week. It’s not unreasonable, and yet when they're traveling for Baz Pitch it pisses me off to no end. 

I have a two hour break between clients, so I’m scrolling social media. I’m trying to do a better job engaging there, but it’s tough. I’m not antisocial, I like talking with my clients when they’re here, and I can carry on a conversation with anyone down at our local, but when I’m online I freeze up. I start to feel like I’m not worthy of the attention. I know that’s silly, but it’s hard to shake, even with the help of a good therapist and nearly 100,000 followers on my instagram. 

Shepard has access to my social media and helps me out sometimes. He’ll log on and post recent photos and respond to comments when he sees I’ve gone silent for too long. I appreciate that. It’s just--it’s a lot sometimes and I get really overwhelmed by all the attention.

But I’m making the effort to change. I’m in the middle of replying to a comment about a recent tattoo of a castle I did when I realize I’ve never followed Baz. I mean, I’ve followed him for ages, but not followed-followed. He’s the autocomplete when I go to the search bar. I go there now and he appears, a carefully curated collection of black and white ink. If not for the peach, tan, olive, and brown skin I would think these photos were all in black and white. 

I’m jealous of his aesthetics. He knows how to put himself out there to the world. He knows who Baz Pitch is and how to market that identity. 

I click follow and hear his phone ping across the room. 

Then I go back to scrolling. 

After a while Baz’s client asks for a break, and I watch as Baz stands, cracks his back and does some stretches before picking up his phone. He gives a little smirk and then my phone alerts me that I have a new follower. 

We stare at each other across the room. 

“Professional courtesy?” He asks. 

“Right,” I respond. “Hey, Pen, check this out. Insane detail, right?” 

Penny’s just emerged from the storage closet with a box of gloves in each hand and leans over my shoulder to look at a picture of someone’s fresh scarification that’s come up in my feed. Neatly carved lines trace out a pattern along someone’s forehead and cheekbones. 

“Whoa. How do they do that? How do people sit still for it? I can’t fathom, I would scream bloody murder. Baz, come look at this.” 

He appears behind me and almost immediately bony fingers are digging into the meat of my shoulder. 

“What the fuck?” I turn in his grasp. He’s got a death grip on me.

“I don’t do well with the sight of blood, Snow,” he says, knees buckling. 

“That’s a fucking understatement!” I barely have time to drop my phone (probably explains all the cracks) and grab him by the elbows before he falls.

I hold him by his upper arms and push my rolling stool under him with one foot. He sort of collapses onto it and hangs his head between his hands. My phone is still on, bloody photo visible, on the floor at his feet, so I kick it out of the way with the toe of my boot. Not hard, just enough to crack it a little more and get it out of Baz’s line of sight. 

“Shit. Shit shit shit,” Penny repeats, rubbing Baz’s back. “You ok, Baz?” 

“How is a tattoo artist squicked out by the sight of blood?” I laugh. “You know some of that shit we’re always wiping away is blood, right Baz?” 

He groans. “Irony abounds. Now, would you kindly shut up for a moment so I can recover some sense of dignity before my client returns?

“I’ll make you tea,” Penny says, hurrying away to snap on the kettle. 

I grab her rolling stool and sit, rolling up in front of Baz. He’s still holding his head in his hands and shaking a bit. I knock my knee into his. 

“You gonna be alright, mate?” 

He’s taking slow, deep breaths, filling his lungs, holding, then releasing. I can feel his breath stir the air around my hands. 

“Yeah,” Baz says looking up. “Yes. I’m alright. Just need a moment.” 

He looks down. Our knees are still touching. I push off with my feet and roll further away from him. 

“It’s a shame I didn’t know this weakness when we were roommates. So much wasted potential.” 

“Yes. What a pity,” Baz responds coolly, redoing his bun. His hair looks good like that. Infuriatingly, it looks good every way he wears it. Some people just have good hair.

Penny reappears with a steaming mug in her hands. 

“Four sugars and oat milk, the way you like it,” she says, passing the mug to Baz.

“Four sugars?! What are you a hummingbird?” 

Baz’s client steps back into the shop at this point and Penny shoots me a look. 

“Never seen a goth hummingbird before,” I mock-whisper. Baz glares at me over the rim of his mug. 

**Penny**

It has been 0 days since our last Simon/Baz altercation. 

I’m considering having a sign made up for the shop to track days between fights. We probably wouldn’t need anything beyond single digit numbers. 

It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have left them alone in the shop when neither of them had a client. I should have kenneled them both while I ran errands, or brought Simon with me in one of those baby slings. I should’ve installed one of those pet cameras that lets me spy on them and drop treats when they’re being very good boys. Candy for Simon. Kale, or whatever it is vegans consider a treat, for Baz. 

That’s what started all this: Simon picking at Baz about his vegan inks. I’m outside with him now trying to calm him down. Simon, that is, not Baz. Baz lived a life that instilled coping skills in him. He can calm down on his own.

“It’s not my fault! I just asked him why he says his work is vegan on his website. It was an honest question when you’re poking ink into human skin! He’s the one that called me a murderer!” 

Simon’s pacing back and forth. I’m sitting at the little outdoor table we have at the back of our shop. There’s barely room in the alley for it, but it’s worth it to have some space where we can sit privately and look up at the sky. It’s worth it when Simon’s about to go off. 

“Deep breaths, Simon. Deep breaths.” 

He takes a couple shaky little shallow breaths and I reach out to grab his hand, squeezing. 

He squeezes back. Good. He’s still in there, we haven’t lost him completely. 

“I didn’t mean to get all worked up, I just--he just--” Simon falters and stares up at the sky. I see a tear squeeze out through the corner of his eye before he flops down into the chair next to me and lays his face on the table.

“I didn’t know about the bone char or whatever it is in the fucking inks. I wasn’t trying to be a dick about it, no matter what Baz says.” 

“I know, Simon. I know," I pet his curls. "Neither of you is actually trying to be a dick to the other.”

Simon lifts his head and stares up at the sky, blinking hard.

“He’s not fucking trying,” Simon mumbles. 

“Yes, he is. He’s trying. He’s not the same little wanky art-bro from school, you know. You should make an effort to get to know him.”

“I was making an effort!”

“Yelling at him about inks was part of your effort to get to know him?” I snap. 

He sighs. And pouts. 

“He was yelling, too!” 

I love Simon, but he can be such a child sometimes. I can’t blame him, he didn’t have much of a supportive childhood, so why not stretch out the petulant, difficult part as long as possible? 

“I can’t go on like this, Penny. The fighting and the constant...Baz-ness of it all! I can’t handle it! It’s like being in a room with a wailing siren. I can’t focus on anything else! It's him or me, Penny. One of us is going to kill the other!"

“You know, there is another option, right Simon?” 

Baz appears at the back door. He’s managing to carry three mugs of tea in his hands and looks at us with trepidation before pushing the door open with his boot and setting the mugs down on the table. He takes his and backs away to lean on the far wall.

He’s out of Simon’s striking distance. 

“Thanks,” Simon mumbles. 

“You’re welcome,” Baz answers. 

They stare at each other silently. I want to clonk their heads together and make them kiss and make up.  
Actually, now that I think about it…

“We need to call a truce,” Simon exclaims loudly, interrupting my train of thought. 

“A truce? That seems a bit dramatic,” Baz says, crossing his legs at the ankle. He’s all leg. Like a spider. I’d like to treat him like a spider right now and smack him with a newspaper for triggering Simon. 

I think I will. Metaphorically, of course.

“Actually, no, lads. It’s not too dramatic at all. Truce is exactly the right word for the steadily growing shit-show of animosity between you. Sort yourselves out, figure out your priorities, because I think we’re on the verge of somebody saying or doing something irredeemably stupid in front of a client, and _we are better than that_ ,” I push myself up from the table. Time to give these two morons some space and hope they figure it out.

Exactly _what_ I’m hoping they’ll figure out, I’m not sure. 

**Baz**

I keep my physical distance from Simon after Bunce leaves. I know I’ve pushed him too far. I was cruel and callous with my words.

I know about his mentor, Ebb, Bunce told me what happened. And I know Snow blames himself for her death, even though he shouldn't. Which means I can intellectualize that I shouldn’t have used the words “murder” and Snow’s name in the same sentence. It was childish and inappropriate. 

But in my defense, _he started it_. 

I’m also being a rubbish vegan by making the comparison I did, but to be honest I _am_ a rubbish vegan. 

I don’t eat meat because I can’t stand the texture, and I’m lactose intolerant so dairy is right out. It's an easy skip and a hop to leave out eggs and honey and be full vegan.

But, it's vegan by way of being an extremely fussy eater, not because I’m some bleeding heart, compassionate soul. 

Except that I am a bleeding heart, compassionate soul, because I only use vegan inks, and I refuse to wear leather. I’m still a rubbish vegan, though. Perhaps rubbish person as a whole, because I still haven't apologized to Simon and I'm just standing here uselessly in the alley.

Simon speaks first. He's braver than I. Bolder. He always has been.

“I’m sorry I was rude to you, Baz. It wasn’t intentional. I honestly didn’t know about the vegan ink stuff,” he says, running his hands through his hair and utterly wrecking his curls. I'll forgive him for picking at my veganism, but not for what he's doing to his gorgeous hair.

“Perhaps I overreacted.” 

“That was a shit apology.” 

“Alright, then, _I’m sorry_ I overreacted. Better, Snow?” 

“Much. But if we’re on a truce you should call me Simon.” 

“I’m willing to establish a truce, but I draw the line at calling you Simon.”

“Ha! You just did it!” 

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did,” he picks up his tea and smiles smugly. 

“I owe you an apology as well. I really shouldn’t have said that stuff about death and murder. That was extremely inappropriate of me. It really isn’t who I am and I deeply regret it, Snow.” 

He nods and stares me down with his intense blue eyes, but he looks like he’s barely there. Bunce warned me this happens sometimes when he’s triggered over Ebb’s death. So, of course my idiot-self had to go and put both fingers on the trigger and pull.

“Simon, whatever happened that night, you know it wasn’t your fault, right?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Simon says, hitting his mug on the table as he sets it down. 

“I can leave, Simon. Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” 

“You got that I meant both leave this alleyway and the shop as a whole, right?” 

“I got that, Baz. And no. You don’t need to leave.” 

“Alright.” 

“And you called me Simon. That's three times now.” 

“No I didn’t.” Yes, I did. I can count the number of times I’ve called him Simon on one hand. Once on the day I met him, and then three times in a row today. 

“I’m sorry I haven’t given you a fair chance, Baz. Your work is good and you’re responsible. You deserve a fair chance,” Simon sets his eyes on me and I feel my heart stutter in my chest. 

“Your work is also good,” I reply, my words feel clumsy in my mouth.

I suddenly realize, I don't know how to be kind to Simon Snow. I don't know how to be honest. Or earnest. Because if I am honest and earnest I might fling myself onto the table in front of him and beg him to take me.

He stands and takes the few steps across the alley to stand in front of me. Perhaps he’ll punch me into this wall and put me out of my misery. 

Instead he extends his hand in front of him. 

“Truce?” He asks. 

I take his hand in mine. It’s warm, and I can feel the callouses from where he holds his tattoo machine. 

“An Englishman’s word is his bond,” I say, and we shake hands twice before releasing.

Simon leans against the wall beside me and we both sip our tea in silence. It’s the British equivalent of one of those ridiculous American man hugs where they slap each other hard on the back like no-homo bros. 

Except I am very much pro-homo. Especially when it comes to Simon. 

The next day he sets down a small white paper bag at my workstation before walking off.

“What’s this, Snow?” 

“Vegan breakfast sandwich,” he smiles a lopsided smile. “And as a show of goodwill, I ate two of them myself on the walk here.” 

I don’t tell him I hate to eat in front of other people. Instead I open the bag, unwrap what he’s brought and sink my teeth into it. It’s warm and fatty and delicious. 

“Thank you, Simon.” 

"You called me Simon."

"No I didn't."

I’m rewarded with one of his blazing smiles.

Crowley, working here was a terrible mistake. An epic cock-up for the ages. Is it too late to run screaming from the building and dive into the sea? Surely if I start swimming now I can be in Calais by sunset. I'll keep it as an option.


	4. The Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our trio deal with a Dragon attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short standalone chapter that can be skipped without missing any major plot points. Just in case you read the content warning below and are like "nah, I'll pass." Chapter 5 is up, so you can skip to that one.
> 
> CW: sexual harassment  
> A character engages in inappropriate behavior towards Penny. I've tried to keep it extremely vague, and describe what the character says as "inappropriate" rather than writing it out explicitly. There is also an _attempted_ unwanted touch. It is a very brief moment.  
> Simon's visceral reaction to what happens is less vague and oblique. I guess the CW for that is, Simon menaces someone with a knife.
> 
> I hate giving everything away in the notes, but I equally despise reading a fic and getting to a scene with anything triggery in it. It pulls me right out. Whereas if I know it's coming I can be ready for it and be like "ok, that was alright. I knew it was comin'!"

**Baz**

The Dragon is here. He’s getting tattooed by Penny today. 

The tattooing community is full of people like The Dragon: eccentric individuals who are entirely focused on collecting tattoos and other body modifications around one particular theme. There’s Enigma, who covered himself in puzzle tattoos, has subdermal horn implants, and even went so far as to have the sclera of his eyes tattooed black. There's Katzen the Tiger Lady whose work includes tiger stripe tattoos covering her body and specially designed piercings that give her cat whiskers. Then there's The Lizardman who...well, you get it. It does what it says on the tin. 

The Dragon’s whole thing is, unsurprisingly, dragons. Every square inch of his body is covered in various sized and shaped dragon tattoos except his face. His face is tattooed to look like a dragon's: yellow fangs over his mouth, red and black scales on his cheeks and forehead. He’s had his tongue bifurcated and subdermal implants inserted along his bald scalp. They run down his head looking all the world like the kind of ridges one might see on a dragon. He wears yellow contact lenses and insists people call him The Dragon.

It’s not for me, thanks. 

Penny’s set up and tattooing just above his right kneecap. She’s fixing an awful tattoo there that looks more like the T-Rex from Jurassic Park than a dragon. But then, most of his tattoos are just awful. I don’t know why he’d choose to fix this one up and leave all the others looking a fright. He's traveled in special for it, from who knows where.

I know I'm being a pretentious tattoo snob about the whole thing, but then, it turns out, so is Simon.

“Yeesh, she's got her work cut out for her,” he whispers, with a jerk of the head back towards where Penny's getting started. He's on his way to the supply closet loaded down with boxes of cleaning supplies. I could offer to help him, but I don't.

He passes back by my workstation two more times to whisper catty little things to me. "He calls those face tattoos dragon scales? Look more like polka dots to me. "And then, "Just realized those polka dots on his head make him look like a ladybird. I guess _The Ladybird_ doesn't sound as badass as _The Dragon_ , though."

I laugh each time. It's a quiet, work-appropriate laugh.

I’ve never known Simon to be catty like this. I like it. I like this truce.

I settle in to work on a design for a client who's coming in next week. For a while I get lost in the soft scratch of my pens on paper and the buzz of Penny's tattoo machine.

Suddenly, the buzz disappears.

"Stop it," I hear Penny say, calmly but forcefully. I pause, my pen frozen on the page, listening for what comes next. "You're being inappropriate. This is your one and only warning. If you speak to me like that again you'll need to leave, and will forfeit your deposit."

Penny's seated on her tattoo stool in front of him and her body language screams _I will end you_. She's fierce, I don't mind saying, even in her funny little plaid schoolgirl skirts and buckled doc marten Mary Janes.

I cap my pen and slowly slide my sketchbook to the side, just in case.

"Don't be like that, I was only joking," he says, reaching out with one long fingernailed hand towards Penny's...shoulder? She dodges out of his reach.

"Do not touch me!" she says loudly. Crowley, I love her. 

I stand up, ready to help if she needs it. She doesn't need a man to come rescue her, but I'm ready just in case she wants help.

The Dragon laughs at her, tries to reach for her again and when she once again evades his touch, The Dragon spits at her to get back to work.

Something in me snaps.

I launch myself towards them, but apparently I'm too late. Simon appears there first, hauling the guy up by the front of his shirt and slamming him against the stone wall. Hard. Simon reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a butterfly knife, and opens it skillfully with a twist of his wrist and a flash of silver. Aren't those knives illegal? Crowley, why does Snow have one?

I rush to Penny while Simon menaces The Dragon.

“Bunce?” 

“I’m fine, Baz, but you need to help Simon. He could very well kill the guy.” 

“I think he’d deserve it.”

“I'm not being hyperbolic, Baz,” Penny says, looking up at me with flashing brown eyes. “ _Simon might_ _kill him._ ” 

Oh.

“Do you want to call the police, Penny? File a report?” 

“No. He didn't touch me, he was just being a disgusting pervert. If I change my mind later I can pull his information off his waiver. I just want him _gone,_ and not in a body bag because of Simon.” 

“Alright. Go outside. Call Shepard,” I say, ushering her to the back door of the shop before moving towards Simon.

"She told you to stop and you tried to touch her. _Twice._ Give me a good reason why I shouldn't remove you from this world," he snarls. He’s pressing the blade of his knife against The Dragon’s neck. At any moment blood will be spilled.

“Let go of me, man! Let go! I’ll apologize!”

“Then do it.”

“She’s not even here anymore, she’s fucked off somewhere!” The Dragon says. 

“Hopefully to get a bigger knife,” Simon snarls before looking behind him for Penny. He makes eye contact with me instead.

His eyes are wild. I can see what Bunce means. He does sort of go off, doesn't he?

“Where's Penny? She alright?" he asks, pressing his forearm across The Dragon’s chest a little harder, holding him in place. The Dragon's not a small man, I don't know how Simon's holding him there so easily other than pure adrenaline. And the knife at his jugular, of course.

“She’s fine. She’s outside calling Shepard. She's fine.”

“Great. Now get out. I know you don’t like the sight of blood.” 

“Simon,” I say, sliding up closer to him. "I think you should put down the knife.”

“Don’t want to.” 

“This prick is not worth going to prison over," I say softly.

Simon growls and presses the long blade a little harder into the guy’s skin.

“I’m sorry! I said I'm fuckin’ sorry!” The Dragon's groaning now. His eyes roll back and forth between me, Simon, and the door of the shop. He looks desperate. Good.

“Fuck your apology!” Simon screams in his face. The Dragon flinches. 

I move closer to Simon and put my hand on his shoulder.

“Simon. He’s a complete bin bag of a human. Total garbage," I say, lightly squeezing Simon's shoulder. "But Penny doesn't want you to kill him, and he already has to live with the worst punishment of all."

"What's that?" Simon grunts.

"Looking like that."

Simon snorts and drops the knife infinitesimally from The Dragon's neck. It's something. I can work with that.

"Come on, Simon. He's not worth it. Penny doesn't want this."

I push my hand more firmly into his shoulder, trying to force something more into him, but I don't know what. Self-preservation? Self-control? I don't know. That kind of knife isn't even legal in the UK. If he hurts, or kills, this guy with an illegal knife...well, I'll be forced to do something equally criminally stupid so I can go to prison with him.

With a grunt Simon releases The Dragon and shoves him to the side. In turn, I release my grip on Simon. The Dragon looks terrified. I don’t think he’ll be a threat anymore. 

“What did Penny want to do about this absolute piss stain?” Simon turns to look at me. 

“She wants him out of our shop. After that? Who fucking cares?”

"Don't ever come back. Don't contact any of us. Ever. Don't speak or act like that to _anyone_ _ever again_. You hear me?" Simon says. He's standing with his legs spread wide, butterfly knife still open and out in his hand. "You don't treat people like that. And you listen when someone says no."

The Dragon nods.

"Alright. Piss off, then,” Simon says, flicking the knife around in his hand and snapping it closed.

We follow him out, and then stand there, side by side on the pavement, watching The Dragon disappear out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really hope that wasn't too bad.
> 
> Also, as soon as I wrote the line _If he hurts, or kills, this guy with an illegal knife...well, I'll be fored to do something equally criminally stupid so I can go to prison with him._ My dumb brain went: And they were cellmates! Ohmygawd, they were cellmates!
> 
> Chapter 5 is up as well, needed a palate cleanser after this one.


	5. Handfuls of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heads up! I posted two chapters today, go back and read 4 if you haven't (or hello and welcome if you chose to skip it)
> 
> Palm tattoos, pub night, mirror selfies, and flash day! Flash day! Flash Day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flash are predrawn tattoo designs (which you probably already know, but just in case you didn't). Lots of shops have them hanging on the walls or in books, you choose what you want from the flash as your new tattoo.
> 
> I've upped the rating on this fic to M. For science reasons.

**Simon**

I nearly saw the tattoos on his palms the other day. He asked to borrow one of my pens and I almost caught a glimpse. 

They’re old, and faded, that much I can tell. And he didn’t have them at Uni. I’d have noticed. I noticed everything about him at Uni. The better to sabotage you with, Mr Pitch. 

“You could just ask him, you know,” Shepard says, sipping his pint. 

We’ve gone out for drinks after work, as we often do on a Saturday. Baz has finally agreed to join us this time. (He’s politely declined the last 3 weeks, but Penny set Shepard on him this week and no one can resist Shepard. He could charm a Bigfoot.) (He did charm Penny.) 

(Penny is not a Bigfoot, but I’m just saying...same levels of ferocity I’d imagine.)

This is my chance to plot with Shepard because Baz has nipped off to the loo while Penny gets the next round in.

“You’re on a truce, right? Just ask him.” 

“Ask him about what?” Penny says, returning with four pints expertly balanced between her hands. She’s short, and her hands are small, but nothing can stop her when she’s determined. Tonight I think she’s determined to get a little bit drunk.

“Simon wants to know about Baz’s tattoos,” Shepard says, despite my desperate gestures for him to shut up. 

“Just ask him,” Penny scoffs, sliding into her seat next to Shepard and leaning her head on his shoulder for a brief moment. 

He leans down to kiss her forehead and I feel like I should turn away, but I like seeing the closeness between the two of them. 

Penny deserves this love. She deserves the world. 

“Oh, here he comes. Hey, Baz!” she calls over my head. “Simon wants to know about your tattoos.” 

On second thought, Penny deserves nothing and I hate her. 

“Snow. Do you need me to teach you which end of the machine is the hurty-pokey bit again?” 

I snarl a bit. At Baz, at Penny, at the universe. Then I drink my lager too quickly. 

“What did you want to know, Simon?” He asks when I set down my pint, already half finished. 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

“Of course it does, Snow it’s what we do for a living. It’s what binds us together. What would you like to know?” 

“Just wondered about yours, is all. The ones _on_ you. I never see them, except I know you have something on your palms.” 

Baz takes a deep breath before placing his long, thin hands on the table in front of him, palms up. He stretches his fingers a bit, revealing two handfuls of black linework in the shape of flames in his palms. It looks like he’s cupping two handfuls of fire. 

“Flames?” I ask. 

He nods. “For my mother.” 

He takes another long deep breath in, holds it, and releases slowly before continuing. 

“She was an artist herself, an exceptional painter. Oils. She’s why I’m an artist. She told me when inspiration struck it felt like fire in her hands. _Light a match inside your heart and blow on the tinder_.” 

He slowly closes his palms together, worrying his hands back and forth. 

“Ironic, then, that she would die in a fire in her studio,” he says softly. “The solvents. Extremely combustible.”

Shit. And he has flames tattooed on his palms? The only tattoos he shows the world? The only ones on his body _he_ can see every day? Jesus and Mary, that’s heavy. 

“I’m so sorry, Baz,” Penny offers, sliding her hand across the table towards him. He nods at her once, his face blank. 

“Sorry, that’s a morose conversation,” Baz says, shaking his body and letting a smirk grow slowly across his face. “To see my other tattoos, of which there are many and they are glorious, you’d have to be lucky enough to catch me in a state of undress.” 

He smiles wryly and sips his stout. His grey eyes flashing.

“Challenge accepted, my dude,” Shepard says, and Penny elbows him in the stomach. Then we’re all laughing and the conversation moves along, to shop talk, discussions of terrible coworkers from the past, and stories of college misdoings.

We end the night with smiles and hugs from Penny and Shepard both and a promise from Baz that he’ll join us again next week. 

Then it’s just he and I.

“Are you far?” I ask, pulling my collar up against the wind. 

“Just a few blocks that way,” Baz answers, pointing down the street before wrapping his scarf tighter around his throat and doing up another button on his coat. 

“Me too,” I say. 

So we head off, side by side. 

“How old were you, when it happened?” The question slips out of my mouth before I realize what I’m asking. 

“My mother’s death? Five,” he responds. 

“Shit…” my voice trails off. 

“It’s alright, Snow. I was fortunate to have any time with her at all. Oh, bloody hell, sorry, I didn’t mean for that to sound insulting. I know you grew up in care--”

I cut him off. “It’s alright, I’m not bothered. Growing up in care wasn’t a treat, but neither is losing a parent so young. It’s not the Fucked Up Childhood Olympics. There's enough space in the world for both our sad childhoods.” 

“How do you know I had a sad childhood?”

“Well, look at you. You dress all in black, you’ve scratched a permanent visible reminder of your mother’s death on your hands, and you’re a tattoo artist. Those aren’t the hallmarks of a happy childhood, as far as I know.” 

“There are well-adjusted tattoo artists,” Baz huffs.

“Sure, we’re well-adjusted _now_. The tattooing helps with that. But find me one artist who didn’t have a messed up childhood. I dare you.” 

“Penelope Bunce,” Baz answers, matter-of-factly.

“Alright, fair point,” I laugh and he joins me. He has a good laugh. Not even a little bit maniacal or evil. 

“Maybe we should have tried to get to know one another a bit better when we were roommates instead of going at each other’s throats all the time,” I say into the wind. “Seems like we have more in common than not.” 

“So much in common. There’s Agatha, to start,” Baz says.

I jerk my head in his direction to see there is a sparkle in his eye and he’s biting back laughter. 

“You berk,” I say, shoving him with my elbow. He doesn’t even have the decency to stagger from the push, just makes a graceful quick couple of steps and continues on. What a prick.

I catch him shiver against the wind. 

“You cold? Where's your hat?” I ask. He came into work wearing a grey beanie.

“Must have left it back at the studio.”

His dark hair is whipping around his face in the wind. I pull my red cable knit beanie off my head and hold it out to him. 

“No, Snow, that’s yours,” Baz says, shaking his head. 

“Are you refusing to wear it because it has a bobble? It won’t ruin your edgy street cred to wear a hat with a bobble on it,” I say, shaking my hat at him. The bobble flops around. I might be a little tipsy.

“No, I’m fine, Snow, really.”

“You’re really not, I can hear your teeth clacking together. Take it. I’m always running warm. Anyway, I'm good,” I say, popping up the fur hood on my duffel coat and pointing at my head.

“Fake fur, I trust?” he smiles. 

“Of course.” (I have no idea.)

I’m tired of waiting for him to take my hat when I know he’s freezing, so I stop walking and shove it over his head. He complains a bit, but doesn’t fight me. Instead he stops and stands still on the pavement, his hands fisted in the pockets of his coat, letting me tug the beanie down over his hair. 

“There. Now you’ll stop shivering like a pathetic little chihuahua," I feel annoyed. My hat looks annoyingly good on him. “And I won’t ruin your dark and brooding aesthetic by telling anyone you wore a bobble hat.” 

“Ooh, aesthetic. That’s a big word for you, Simon.” 

“You just called me Simon,” I mock.

“No I didn’t.”

I’m home and brushing my teeth when I get a notification on instagram. It’s a DM from Baz. 

He’s sent me a picture. A selfie. 

A bathroom mirror selfie, to be exact. Baz Pitch takes bathroom mirror selfies? I wouldn’t have thought him capable of something so...normal. 

He’s still completely buttoned up, top collar button and everything, and he’s still wearing my red bobble hat.

He’s added a block of text across the center of the photo: 

_Ruining my dark and brooding aesthetic, one bobble hat at a time. #BobbleHatIsFunToSay #BobbleHat_

I laugh and double tap his picture, then reply by taking my own bathroom mirror selfie, toothbrush dangling from the corner of my mouth as I smile, foam gathered on my lips, throwing the peace sign.

I add text across it: 

_Ur welcome mate. #BobbleHatIsFunToSay? #HoldOn #BazIsCapableOfHavingFun?_

As soon as I hit send I realize I’m shirtless. I sent him a shirtless mirror selfie. 

Shit. Fuck. 

Oh well, what’s done is done. At least I look good in it. 

I screenshot the selfie he sent. Dunno if it’ll disappear or not and I want to examine it to see if there’s any hint of his other tattoos.

I don’t fall asleep until late because I’m doing recon on his account, still trying to determine which tattoos are his, pinching and zooming until my eyes blur. 

  
  


**Baz**

I’m just finishing up with a client when Penny bursts into the shop, bringing a whirl of dried leaves and a blast of cold air with her. 

“Flash day! I want to do a flash day!” She announces. 

“What? Why? We never do flash days,” Simon says, looking up from his work.

He’s currently free-handing a design with markers on a client’s shoulder blade. It infuriates me that he can freehand like that. I plan my tattoos out meticulously ahead of time. Every line and dot purposeful, and controlled. 

Simon rushes in recklessly armed with a pack of sharpies and starts attacking skin.

I don’t know what infuriates me more, the fact he doesn’t have to spend all that time planning and sketching, or how they always turn out gorgeous. 

He says it doesn’t make sense to plan. “Everyone's body is different. I like to wait until I can see the canvas before I start planning the work.” 

You can’t argue with his results. They’re lush. 

But I don’t know how he’s going to reconcile that “rush in, no planning, we die like men” style with a flash day. 

Flash days are getting more popular among the higher end shops, though I’ve never participated in one. They’re not particularly suited to my laborious, overworked style. But it’s a nice way for bigger artists to give something back to their followers. Artists work up some smaller, simpler designs in their style and they’re available on a first come, first served basis. A prix fixe menu, if you will, but where no one gets the same meal twice. 

It allows fans of your work who might not otherwise be able to afford regular prices, or have trouble getting on your books, to have a chance at a piece from you. No applications to submit with your ideas, no waiting for that one day every few months that the books open, no hundred+ pound deposit. Just get in line early, choose the design you want, and pay. It’s all very egalitarian. 

At desirable shops, with desirable artists, flash days can turn into pandemonium.

Penny is still ranting about having one, though. 

“I need something to break me from this dreary November monotony. Please! Flash day! It’ll be fun! We’ll give all the money to charity. Baz you can pick one of those animal welfare groups you’re so passionate about.”

“I’m not passionate about animal welfare,” I respond, not looking up from my work. 

“I thought all vegans were into animal welfare,” Simon chirps from across the room.

“That’s painting us with a rather broad brush, don’t you think?” I reply. I’m being contrary for the sake of being contrary.

“Huh. Alright. Well. I think a charity event is a good idea, so who do we give the money to?” 

“Christmas is coming. We should give it to a care home. Use it for presents for the kids. Christmas is rough in care,” Simon suggests happily, as if he’s not revealing some deep and melancholy truth about his life. 

“YES!” Penny says. “That means you’re in, right Simon?” 

“Sure, Pen. I’m in. Sounds like a fun challenge.” 

I feel Penny’s eyes turn expectantly to me. In fact, I feel everyone in the shop suddenly staring at me. I turn off my machine and unfold my body, looking up. 

“Baz...?” Penny says, glaring at me as if I’m about to ruin Christmas. 

Which, I suppose, if I say no, would be true. I’d be ruining Christmas for a bunch of kids in care. 

My client stares at me. “I mean, I’d be the first person in line if you did a flash day,” they say smiling. 

I’m literally tattooing them now and they’re saying they’ll come back on the very off chance they can get another, completely random piece of work from me. 

Pandemonium, I tell you. 

Simon’s client calls out from across the room, “I’ll be the second in line, then!”

“Oi! I thought you were here for me!” Simon responds, in mock outrage. 

“I am! I already have ink from Penny. Now you. Baz would complete the set,” he says, smiling. “There’s an embarrassment of good tattoo artists in this studio.” 

Penny and Simon smile at one another, then turn the power of their pleading eyes and smiling faces on me. I’m helpless.

“Alright. Fine! I’ll do it. Now let me get back to work.”

I hear Bunce across the shop quietly chanting to herself: “Flash day! Flash day! Flash day!”


	6. The World of Mages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Admitting weakness, a mundanity that creeps, and The World of Mages reveals itself.

**Baz**

_I excel at that which I attempt._

I’m repeating it like a mantra as I repeatedly fuck up every attempt I make at sketching out designs for our flash day. 

We’ve scheduled it for a couple weeks from now, on a Sunday when we’re normally closed. We’ve already posted on all our social media, which proceeded to “blow up” as the kids say, so I can’t back out now. Someone in Northern Ireland even threatened to fly in for the weekend on the off chance they could get a piece. 

They don’t even know what I’m offering, but they still want it.

And I have nothing to offer them. I'm going to let everyone down. My followers, Penny, Simon, myself.

With a groan, I throw my pencil to the ground. 

“You alright, mate?” Simon asks.

“Yes. Fine, Snow,” embarrassed he saw my outburst, I retrieve my pencil from the floor.

“Trouble with a design?” 

“Trouble with _all_ the designs,” I say, flopping back onto my stool and slamming my sketchbook closed. Penny and Simon might sketch on iPads, but I prefer the scratch of a pencil on paper for my drafts. More tactile.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, I’ve grown accustomed to large, extremely detailed pieces, meticulously planned over the course of many days, Snow. I don’t know how to translate my style to flash. It’s not something I’ve done before. I am...struggling.” 

Admitting I’m not good at something feels like I’m exposing myself. If it weren’t for the truce I wouldn’t have done it. I feel as if I’ve thrown my arms wide and told Simon where to put the tip of the blade for maximum damage. 

Simon has a tattoo of a sword running along the entire inner length of his right arm. I imagine if he put that particular blade _anywhere_ on my body it would cause maximum damage. 

“Well,” Simon says, grabbing his iPad and sitting back down on his rolling stool. “When I’m planning I like to start with a theme and build out from there.” 

He kicks off hard with his feet and rolls across the shop to me. 

He does this a lot, I’ve noticed, flies around the studio atop his rolling stool. I find it unutterably endearing, which means I also often contemplate removing all the ball bearings from the wheels so he can’t do it anymore.

Simon rolls into my space and powers up his device, showing me the designs he’s been working on. 

“This is easy for you, Snow. Fantasy is your thing, so you’re always working to theme,” I say. 

“Yeah, but it’s a wide genre, innit? I could choose magical animals. Or magical symbols. Do I do something around fortune telling and divination? Weaponry? What’s my starting point?” 

“What’s your theme for the flash day?” I ask.

“Thought that was obvious. Sword of Mages,” he says, swiping through his designs once more. They’re all blackwork variations on a sword, blazes of magic shining around each. Every sword has a delicate banner wrapped around it and small snatches of text. 

“Wait,” I say, reaching out and barely touching the back of his wrist. “Go back to the beginning…” 

He swipes through again, slower this time. I read the words written across each banner aloud as he does. 

_In justice._

_In courage._

_In defence of the weak._

_In the face of the mighty._

_Through magic_

_and wisdom_

_and good._

“What is that, Snow, a poem?”

Simon snorts. “As if. It’s...um, you won’t laugh at me, right?”

“I might, if what you say is humorous.” 

Simon scoffs. 

“I won’t laugh, Simon.” 

“Well, I have this world in my head. The World of Mages. It started when I was a kid, I’d escape into my imagination when I needed to, to comfort myself, to make sense of things. It's sort of a story, I guess, that lives in my brain and in my art. That’s where the Sword of Mages comes from. And those words are the incantation to summon it,” Simon gestures at the sword tattoo on his arm, the same as the shop's logo. The Sword of Mages.

He kicks off and flies back to a flat file to remove a thick sketchbook, before flying back over to me. 

He eyes me up for a moment, sketchbook closed on his lap. It looks more like a scrapbook, really. I can tell there are pages ripped out from other books, sketches done on ruled A4 paper, even doodles on what seems to be children’s construction paper, some of them extremely old. There are sticky notes marking certain pages, and bits that are binder clipped together. 

He looks at me and I can tell he feels the same way I did earlier, when I admitted I wasn’t good at something: He’s about to open himself wide and show me where to strike the blow for maximum damage. 

I will not hurt you, Simon Snow. 

He opens the book and I’m struck breathless. Contained within are the most delicate, magical sketches, pen & ink drawings, and watercolours I’ve ever seen. There are simple pencil drawings dated back more than 15 years, and whole sections with themes worked and reworked again and again. 

There’s an evolution of an artist tracked in this sketchbook. He’s created an entire magical world.

Dragons stretch their wings amongst crumbling, vine-covered towers. Swords and wands are lit up ethereally. Magical creatures and plants fill the pages, all glowing with Simon’s trademark style. 

It’s more than that, though. This is his heart, soul, and spirit on the page: Justice. Courage. Good.

“This World of Mages has been rattling around in my head since I was a kid. People think being in care is sad because you miss having a family. That’s not what makes it sad, at least not for me. What made it sad is the overwhelming sameness of it all. The days run together. The mundanity of it creeps in and starts to eat every good thing inside you. There’s a hole inside your heart where your family should have been and the mundanity gets in there and makes that hole grow and grow. So, I fought back the only way I could, I started to fill that hole with magic.” 

“You created a fantasy world to escape from reality,” I say, smoothing two fingers down a picture that looks startlingly like Snow and Bunce standing in silhouette, him holding a sword aloft above his head, the Sword of Mages I now know, whilst she raises a ring-clad hand to the sky, swirls of purple magic surrounding her. 

“Are you the hero of the story, Simon Snow?”

“Don’t take the piss.”

“I’m not taking the piss,” I say, earnestly. “It’s genius. It’s remarkable what the human mind will do to help us survive trauma. It’s a gift of the human experience. Our minds create our destruction, but also give us the opportunity to save ourselves.”

He continues to flip pages and explains a bit of the world he’s imagined to me. The world his mind created to save him. He shows me the adventures he imagined in childhood, the creatures he had to slay, his triumphs and woes.

“What’s that awful thing?” I ask, pressing two fingers to a page where a hideous, slavering creature stares back at us with the head of a wolf and the body of a fish. 

“Merwolf,” Simon smiles, as if it’s a real thing. 

“Merwolf?”

“Merwolf,” he nods, smugly.

“I hate it.”

“I think you love it.” 

“No, I hate it.” 

“Nah, that’s a look of jealousy. I think you’re jealous you didn’t think of a merwolf first.” 

“I hate it.”

“Can you say anything other than _I hate it_?”

Yes, I can. I’m capable of saying a great many things. 

I can say I’ve never been more enamored with him. I can say I love him and his mind, every strange and magical piece of it. I can say I’m currently imagining carefully placing his sketchbook out of harm’s reach, climbing onto his lap, and kissing him breathless.

“I hate it,” I say again. He laughs, and something creaks and sighs in my heart. I’ve come unmoored.

He explains how he started scribbling his ideas down as soon as he could find paper.

“I lost so many early sketches, all terrible, because the staff at the care home would clear them away into the rubbish. Thought they were just stupid scribbles,” he says, fingers running over a childish drawing of a curly haired stick figure locked in battle with what seems to be a badger, but worse. 

“That was the summer the care home had an absolute infestation of badgers in the back garden. Absolutely ruined the space for playing football with all their shit. I think I was working through some things.” 

We laugh. 

“I feel like you tapped into the monomyth with your World of Mages,” I say. 

Simon looks at me like I’m suddenly speaking another language. 

“The classic Joseph Campbell Hero’s Journey?” I respond, taking in a sketch he’s washed over with watercolours. It’s a wood nymph with glowing white eyes like mushrooms. She hovers delicately above the moss covered ground.

“Joseph who? I have no idea who that is.”

“Joseph Campbell? The hero’s journey archetype?” I ask. It’s a lost cause. “I’ll bring you a book about it, Snow.”

He flips the page, and for the briefest moment I’m staring back at myself from the paper below. Simon sucks in a sharp breath of air and furiously tries to flip past it, but it’s too late. I’ve slapped my hand down on top of his to stop him. 

“Snow…” I chide, gently peeling back his fingers from where he’s trying to cover his work. “I think I’m trapped in your book.” 

Finally he lets me peel back his hand and I can see myself. 

It’s undeniably me. He’s captured my widow’s peak and black hair, my wide shoulders and small waist and long legs, cartoonishly long in this picture. There are my sad eyes and my perpetually down-turned mouth. 

He’s painted my skin all wrong, though, here I’m all washed out greys, instead of the rosy coppers of reality. 

He’s also painted me with ridiculous long fangs. 

“A vampire, Snow? I play into your story as a vampire?” 

He shrugs, a flush blossoming beneath the freckles of his cheeks. 

“It’s fine, Snow. Every story needs a villain.”

“You’re not a villain, you’re just-” 

"Just what?"

"Baz."

I run my fingers along the page next to his painting of me. I look good. He’s put me in what seems to be a lovely black suit. 

“This is nice,” I tap the page. “Mind if I snap a picture and take it to my tailor?”

“Of course you have a tailor, you posh git.” 

“Only kidding, Snow,” I say, finally removing my hand from the page so he can continue giving me a tour of his imagination.

With every page I fall deeper and deeper. My heart is an endless well, a bottomless hole that will only continue to grow, and can never be filled. 

Give me your magic, Simon Snow. Pour it into me. Fill me with it, until there’s no room for the mundanity of a normal life. 

**Simon**

I don't know why I’m sharing all this with Baz. I probably shouldn’t be. It’s too open, too raw, but he shared about his mum and I’m trying. See, Penny? I’m making an effort.

I’m starting to slow down as I go, knowing the drawings that are coming up next in the book. 

Then, before I’m really ready, we’re there. 

Ebb. 

Warrior witch. Armour glinting in the sunlight. Surrounded by goats in a field with a crumbling stone wall. 

“Who’s this?” Baz asks. 

“That’s Ebb. She was my mentor. She taught me how to tattoo.” 

“Oh,” he says softly.

I turn the page to where the work gets darker. Ebb locked in battle with him. Davy. 

Davy was just a bit down on his luck, Ebb said. He lived on the streets, slept rough. Every now and again he’d come around the shop where I worked with Ebb and we’d give him a couple quid, or some extra food, or make him tea when we had the time. 

He was always ranting about something or other, how the government was trying to control us, how the “Old Families” (his words) were trying to usurp his power, how the people needed to rise up and take it back, by force if necessary. He’d rant about how a great battle was coming, and we needed to be prepared for it.

He seemed harmless enough. We both thought he was harmless. 

Turns out he wasn’t so harmless. 

I flip a page, another battle between Ebb and Davy, this time Ebb is glowing bright white and yellow, radiating power and magic from her slight frame, Davy in a crumpled heap at her feet.

“She’s beautiful,” Baz says. 

“She wasn’t, really, she was extremely plain.”

“You’re wrong. She’s beautiful,” Baz says again, with emphasis. I feel a tear prick at my eye. Ebb would be pleased with my tears. She’d tell me to let it all out.

“When I draw what happened that night I always draw _her_ victorious.”

Baz nods. “As well you should.”

“Sometimes I like to picture her living out a happy life in my World of Mages,” I say, running my fingers along the page beside a small painting of Ebb holding hands with a dryad, peachy skin curved against brown. “Ebb was queer as well. She crushed hard on the lady who owned the flower shop around the corner from us. I draw them together like this, sometimes: Ebb the hedgewitch and the dryad she loved.” 

I feel the tear finally release from my eye, and start to roll down my cheek. Then, in a flash, it’s gone, because Baz has swiped the tear away with his knuckle. 

It’s a quick movement, barely there at all. Half a whisper of a touch. He quickly wipes his hand on his trousers.

“Sorry, Snow, but it was going to fall on your sketchbook,” Baz says, pointing to it’s inevitable landing spot in the center of the page. “And a raindrop of that size would have ruined Ebb and her dryad’s peaceful reverie.”

My laugh comes out hoarse and choked, and I close my sketchbook, wiping away a few more tears with the back of my hand. 

“Christ, I’ve completely distracted you from your work for our flash day. I’m so sorry,” I say, putting my sketchbook away again and rolling back to my workspace. 

“Don’t apologize, Simon. I’m feeling more inspired, actually,” Baz says. He’s watching me intently with those sad grey eyes of his. I feel them boring into me. “Thank you for sharing your magic with me, Simon.” 

“You just called me Simon,” I laugh. 

“Yes. I did.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“What is that, Snow, a poem?” I ask.  
>  Simon snorts. “As if."_
> 
> OOOOH, self-burn! (my other fics are an AU where Simon becomes a poet.)


	7. Flash Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Three of Swords, pandemonium, and ruthlessly timed glove snaps. It's flash day, and nobody is entirely prepared.

**Penny**

“Alright, lads, out with them. Show me what you’ve got.” 

We’re at the pub. It’s a week before flash day, and we’re talking shop. I want to see everyone’s finished designs before we get started. 

I’m not the boss of Sword of Mages Tattoo, there is no boss. We are an egalitarian arts collective. (Of which I am the boss.)

Simon pulls out his iPad and talks me through his sword designs. They’re simple linework, which is not Simon’s usual style, and I know he’s secretly hoping some of these clients will rebook to have them filled in with color.

He has nine total pieces, far more than he’ll have time or inclination to tattoo in one day, but that’s good, it’ll give the customers some choice. 

Then Baz pulls out his sketchbook and shows us fourteen, FOURTEEN, (14!!!) unique designs. With annotations and at least a paragraph of notes for each.

I’m so impressed.

He’s redesigned the entire Swords suit of the tarot. Somehow he’s simplified them down to their most bare essence, but still maintained the authenticity of his style. They’re incredible. 

“I want to give the client the option to reverse the card, too, have it tattooed upside down. Cards can be pulled in the inverse during a tarot reading. It inverts the meaning.” 

He points to his notes about the meaning and significance of each card. He’s practically written a thesis for our flash day. We should have it collected and bound. Or have _him_ collected and bound. He’s mental. He’s cranked this out in just a few short days. 

“What the fuck, Baz?” I shake my head at him. “You’re going to make us all look bad.”

“You found your theme,” Simon is beaming, tugging the sketchbook closer to him and flipping through, reading the notes. 

“Are you alright with it? I know swords are your thing, but I couldn’t resist,” Baz smiles shyly. He’s staring intently at Simon, who is, in turn, staring intently at the pages of Baz’s sketchbook. 

Simon turns the sketchbook suddenly to Baz and hammers a finger aggressively at the page. 

Oh shit, what now?

“This one,” Simon says forcefully.

“What?” Baz asks. 

“Bagsie. I want it.” 

I crane over the table to look. He’s jamming his finger onto the page showing the Three of Swords. It’s a simple enough design, a roman numeral three at the top, and below is a heart pierced through with three swords. 

“It’s representative of sorrow, grief, and loss,” Baz says softly. Suddenly I feel like an intruder. These two have known so much sorrow. Unfathomable grief and loss. 

Baz continues, “It represents the ending of relationships. Cruelty inflicted upon others. It’s for anguish and heartbreak. And inverted it means-” 

“Forgiveness. Optimism. Healing.” Simon finishes. 

My head is swimming with the depth of meaning here. Cruelty inflicted upon others, anguish, heartbreak, hope, forgiveness, healing. 

Simon continues, “Three of Swords. Three of us.” 

“I want it,” Simon says again. “Cross it off your availability list.” 

“That’s not really in the spirit of flash day, Simon-” I start, but Baz cuts me off. 

“You want it, Snow? It’s yours.” 

Do they even hear themselves? I chug my pint and slam it down, empty, on the table. 

“Well, I’m doing a flash sheet of eyeballs, if anyone cares!” 

  
  


**Simon**

We’re three hours into flash day and...and...well. We’re three hours into flash day. 

Let me go back and explain.

Last night Baz and I both had late clients, so Penny and Shepard went out for dinner before joining us back at the shop to get ready for today.

We scoured the place spotless, organized all our materials and inks, and set up displays of our available flash. 

Shepard agreed to help the day-of, to check people in, sell merch, cross off flash as it’s claimed, and act as de facto dj. He used to work in radio back in the states and he has incredible taste in music. 

I swear he’s had every job imaginable. He’ll just casually drop them into conversation, too, as if it’s no big deal. Radio dj. Storm chaser. Short order cook. Tour guide at the Hoover Dam. Sales assistant at an occult shop. Baz perked up at that one and they had a long, animated conversation about Hermeticism and The Golden Dawn and Sex Magick until Penny and I eventually just got up and left. 

Shep’s dj powers come in handy though, he put together just the right playlist to help us speed through our prep last night.

Eventually we were all set up last night and ready to head out to the pub for a quick pint.

“Hey, Sword of Mages crew!” a couple young guys, about 20, jogged up to us as we closed the door.

“Yeah, mate, that us,” I answered. The kid was all bundled up for the cold, so was his friend. “Sorry we’re all closed up and we’re by appointment, anyway. I think there’s a shop the other side of town that might still be open, if you’re wanting something tonight.”

“You’re Simon Snow, right? Yeah, I thought I recognized you from your insta. We were just coming by to see if the line for flash day had started yet. Someone online said they were going to camp out overnight so they could get first pick, so I told Mark we needed to get down here!”

Baz whispered a quiet “...pandemonium...” under his breath. 

“Umm--but, we don’t--we’re not opening until tomorrow at 11,” I eventually managed to spit out. “Were you going to wait out here all night?” 

“I mean, I’ve been trying to get booked with you for a year and a half, so yeah, man, I might.” 

That should have been our sign that flash day was going to be mental. Utterly mad. 

We chatted a bit with the two guys, and Shepard eventually managed to convince them _not_ to wait out all night by referencing weather patterns and throwing in just enough meteorological jargon from his time as a storm chaser that he scared them into thinking there was a good chance of hail the size of golf balls overnight. 

We walked in silence to the pub and didn’t speak until we all had our first drink in front of us. 

“Tomorrow is going to be _a lot_ , isn’t it?” Penny asked. 

“Yeah. Yes. Yeah,” Baz said, eyes glazed. He was at a loss for words. He’s never at a loss for words. 

“Quick question,” I asked. “Is it too late to become a chartered accountant?” We all laughed and finished our pints, excitedly discussing making flash day a yearly winter occurrence. 

We met up this morning at 10 and there was already a line around the block. Now it’s five til 11 and Shep wants to give us a pep talk. 

Americans and their pep talks. Just give me a mug of tea and set me on my way. I don’t need to be pepped.

“Remember, today is a marathon, not a sprint,” he says, enthusiastically. “This is about building something bigger than us. It’s about connecting with the community and letting the fans of your work have a moment with you. So, take breaks, go talk with people in line. Have fun."

Baz rolls his eyes, but Shepard is unperturbed and continues.

"People _want_ to see you having fun. That's how we build community and brand. That's how we get people engaging on social media. Alright, speaking of brand, try to sell some of these hoodies, because I ordered way too many of them and have been too scared to tell y’all.” 

We all laugh and Shep assures us that no, he very much needs us to sell those hoodies so he won’t have to sleep on the sofa that night. 

Then he grabs a step stool and drags it outside. We follow along behind.

“Alright, lovely people!” Shepard says, from the top step, addressing the line. He thought we should come out first. Say hello. Set some ground rules.

“Thank you for coming! You all are incredible! You’re going to help make the holidays so much nicer for some very deserving kids! Here’s the deal. Penny, Baz, and Simon have designed some incredible pieces for y’all, and they are first come first served. That means, as my mom used to say, you get what you get, and you don’t get upset. I’ll cross off the work as it’s claimed and I’ll come back out and announce if and when someone’s work completely sells out.” 

Someone from the back holds up a giant teddy bear and shouts “What if we brought gifts to donate as well?” 

“Well, shit, I didn’t think of that. Anybody else got a gift?” Shep asks the line. 

Several people raise toys and wave them around. Dolls, footballs, action figures, some board games. Someone holds up two brand new winter coats with the tags attached and shouts that they have a bag of hats they knit, too. 

My heart starts to hurt thinking about the kids in care who will get these gifts. 

“Alright, so, we didn’t plan on this amazing eventuality, so we’ll just find somewhere to pile them up for now! Ok. So. It’s the holidays, and we gotta be good to each other today, right? Let’s be each other’s family for the day. We have snacks, if you want a snack. Come in if you need the loo, and don’t be a dick, save someone’s spot if they need to come in and pee! And please know that all the money we make from today’s flash, profits from all merch, and any tips you might give will all go to local care homes to make the holidays better for the kids living there.”

We stood below Shepard while he spoke. Baz was completely still, Penny waved at a few people she knew in line, and I bit the inside of my lip raw. Standing in front of people and being watched is not my idea of a good time, but eventually we were able to go inside and get started with our first clients. And that very much _is_ my idea of a good time.

The music has been flowing, the banter has been solid, and I’ve been feeling better these last few hours. It’s been an excellent, if completely overwhelming day. 

Baz is currently wiping down his chair between sessions, while Shepard shows the next client his remaining flash.

“Oh, I love this song! Shepard, turn it up, mate!” I shout to the front. 

It’s Lizzo’s _Boys_. Shep put it on a playlist for me a couple years ago when it came out, before Lizzo’s career exploded. Shep’s good like that. He discovers the best stuff. 

“Please do _not_ turn up the music, Shepard!” Baz shouts back at him. 

“Why do you hate fun?”

“I don’t hate fun, Snow. I simply prefer focus.” 

We glare at each other a moment.

“Penny? The deciding vote is with you,” Shepard calls over his shoulder.

“Unfair. Favoritism! Bunce will most certainly side with Snow!” Baz complains. Loudly. 

“You should have considered that when you chose to work here, mate,” I reply.

“I vote...” Penny lets her response hang in the air and a few people up at the font start shouting “Up! Up! Louder!” 

Penny turns to Baz and raises her eyebrows. “The people have spoken, Basilton. And we vote louder.” 

Baz sighs and shakes his head at us, but I can see the smile twisting at the corner of his mouth as Shepard cranks the volume up. A few people at the front start to sing along. From my periphery I see a few people dancing on the pavement outside. 

I feel so good, so warm all over, that I start singing along.

By the time I get to the lyric “ _Baby, I don’t need you/ I just wanna freak you/ I heard you a freak, too_ ” I’m shouting the words, along with a fair few other people in the shop. 

Baz slams down a new box of gloves at his workstation.

I spare a glance towards him, worried we’ve pushed him too far with all our scream-singing. He’s standing beside his tattoo chair staring down at me imperiously. He has a steely look on his face as he slides his hand into a black nitrile glove, prepping for his next client.

For a moment I feel guilty and consider asking Shep to turn it back down, but then the chorus loops back around and Baz aggressively, and loudly (so loudly), snaps his glove into place at the exact moment Lizzo sings to me about being a freak too.

**Baz**

Oh, you want to sing to me about being a freak, Snow? 

Snapping my glove while holding eye contact with him felt better than it had any right to. I am positively tingling.

I pull on my other glove, and then snap it into place, too. Simon’s stopped singing. He's just watching. And gulping down air through his mouth.

He swallows and it’s a showy thing, all bobbing Adam’s Apple and flexing jaw tendons. I’d like to sink my teeth into him right there. I’d like to wrap my black gloved hand around his throat and feel his Adam’s Apple move against my palm. I could hold him up by his throat, make him stand on his tiptoes to look into my eyes.

Then I’d spit into his open mouth (mouthbreather) and lick it back out again. 

How’s _that_ for being a freak, too, Snow? 


	8. Coil vs Rotary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on Scotland, the great Coil vs Rotary debate, and a plan is put into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating was raised to M a couple chapters ago. There is innuendo in this chapter that (I think) warrants that M rating, so be aware if you sub'ed back when this was T.
> 
> Endless thanks for sticking with me on this, and for your kind comments. This has turned out to be a longer beast than originally intended, but I appreciate all your encouraging words. I'm glad some of you are having as much fun with it as I am. 
> 
> Also, Baz's personal views on Scotland are in no way the views of the management. 
> 
> -Roo (the management)

**Simon**

This afternoon Baz greeted his client at the door. He never does that. 

His client’s a tall bloke, nearly as tall as Baz. He has reddish hair and muddy blue eyes, and a ridiculous body. I wasn’t looking or anything, but he had to take his shirt off so Baz can work on his back tattoo, and clearly the guy works out.

The most I ever work out is when Penny makes me unload heavy boxes into the shop, or I try to carry too many groceries home at once. 

Should I start working out?

The two greeted each other and hugged before Baz steered him to his workstation with a hand on his shoulder. Maybe a friend from Berlin? Guess it could be an ex. Or shit, does Baz have a partner? He never talks about a boyfriend, wouldn’t you talk about your boyfriend, if you had one? Or like, introduce him to us as his boyfriend?

He doesn’t seem like Baz’s type though, not posh enough. 

Whatever. I need to focus on my work. 

“Shit. Scotland!” Penny says, looking up from her phone. “I forgot about Scotland!” 

“So many people do, Bunce. It’s a fair mistake to make,” Baz intones from his station where he’s still working on his client’s back piece. “In all fairness, I don’t think Scotland minds.” 

“No, I mean, I forgot about the Scottish Tattoo Convention! Simon and I have a booth there.” 

“What’s distressing you about that, Bunce?” Baz continues. “Is it Scotland in general, or a more specific concern around their appalling desire to deep fry otherwise perfectly good foods? I’m sure you can get out of the convention if you just let them know you’re allergic to the sight of underage teenage mums smoking whilst pushing prams.” 

“Hey, go easy on Scotland,” I pipe up, slightly worried a client currently in our shop might be from Scotland. Mine? His? I feel confident I heard an accent on one of them.

“The English have never gone easy on Scotland before, why start now?” 

Penny barks out a laugh before adding, “Fucking colonizers.” 

“I could apologize for what the white half of my lineage has done to the brown half. But there was eversomuch land and we are so, so very greedy.” 

“Tell it to my gran. She hates the English,” Penny snorts. 

“So did mine.” 

“Where was your gran from?”

“Alexandria. Egypt. Yours?”

“Tiruchchirappalli, India.” 

“I’ll have to get you to write that one down for me,” Baz laughs. 

Penny and Baz are like this, their conversation dances easily back and forth, their banter is endless and out of my league. Sometimes it’s difficult not to feel like a complete idiot around them. 

“Thoughts on Scotland, Snow?” Baz asks from his workspace. 

He’s in a rare mood today. He must really like getting to see this client.

“Nothing much comes to mind,” I reply, wiping my client’s arm.

“Ironically, Snow, _Nothing much comes to mind_ is the official slogan for the Scottish educational system,” Baz says, seriously. Penny bursts into peels of laughter. 

“Stop, please, it’s too much, Baz,” she says, wiping her eyes. I catch Baz sharing a smile with his client. 

“Yes. Stop, Baz,” I say, shooting a look across to him. 

“Worried I’ve gone too far, Snow?” he asks, dipping back into his inks and starting up a new line on his client. “Have I offended you, Niall?”

“Not in the slightest,” Niall grunts from the chair, a distinctly Irish lilt to his voice. Shit, not Scottish. Irish.

“How about you? Poppy, was it?” Baz asks my client. I wish he wouldn’t. How does he even remember her name? (Overachiever.)

“My father-in-law is from Scotland,” she begins, and inside I cackle with laughter. Baz is gonna get it now. “And he’s always been a right arse to my wife and I, so no. I’m not offended.” 

“Excellent! I mean, not the horrible father-in-law bit, my condolences for that. How about you, Shep, you harboring some secret William Wallace sympathies?” 

“I mean, I always thought I’d look good in a kilt,” Shep replies from where he’s organizing some paperwork at the front of the shop. 

“Truly, those calves are too good to be trapped away inside trousers. Free your pegs to the open air, Shepard!” Baz crows. 

“Under no circumstances are you to free your pegs to the open air, Shepard,” Penny snaps. 

He pouts back at Penny from the counter. 

“So, it would seem no one is offended by my talk of Scotland, Snow. May I continue?” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

“Their national dish is minced offal boiled inside a sheep’s stomach.” 

“Stop, Baz.”

“What? I was merely reciting a fact, Simon. Are you offended by facts? I’m beginning to think _you’re_ prejudiced against Scotland with all this silencing of facts.”

Everyone in the shop is laughing riotously, except me. I don’t know why. Guess I’m out of sorts today. Feeling prickly.

There’s a few moments of blessed quiet where the shop hums with the buzz of dueling tattoo machines, before Baz pipes back up again. 

“Could I interest anyone in a few thoughts on the country of Wales?”

  
  


**Baz**

Saturday Night Decompress at the Pub has become a regular event, and no one is more surprised than myself that I continue to attend. 

Shepard and Penny are getting the first round, while Snow and I bicker about rotary versus coil tattoo machines. 

We each own and use both rotary and coil machines in fairly equal measure, and don’t have much of a preference either way, but we’ve yet to find a topic we can’t enjoy aggressively and loudly debating. Even post-truce. (Especially post-truce.)

“Coil has speed. Don’t you appreciate a faster tattooing experience, Snow?” I nod my thanks to Shepard as he slides a stout in front of me.

“Speed isn’t everything, Baz. Don’t you like to _take your time with it_?” He says, his voice a low rumble, a wicked twinkle in his eye. I nearly choke on my mouthful of beer. 

Oh, is this what we’re doing? Because I don't play any games I can't win.

“What about power, Snow? When it comes to inks, don’t you care about having the power to drive it in?”

“Yeah, but a coil is clumsy, the rotary handles better. I like the feel of it, Baz. Smooth. Responsive.” 

I catch some of the foam sliding down the side of my glass with my thumb, then suck my thumb into my mouth, licking it clean before responding. 

“I appreciate the sensory experience you get with a coil. It’s more tactile, gives me a better connection with the skin. I like that. I want to _feel_ it. That’s crucial if I’m going to be edging that place between too much and too little pressure,” I hit the word edging a little harder than I need to. 

Penny is barely suppressing her laughter and Shepard’s eyes bounce back and forth between Snow and I.

Come on. Keep going, Simon. Don’t let me win that easily.

“Dunno, Baz, isn’t a coil too noisy for you? All that buzzing and vibrating in the hand? Seems like you’d prefer something quieter.”

“I like to get loud.” 

Now it’s Simon’s turn to nearly choke on his beer, but he doesn’t give up. 

“With a rotary you can tattoo for hours without your hand cramping. Don’t you like to be able to go for hours?” 

“Sure, but you can do that with a coil, Snow, if you have the stamina. And I do. Anyway, I don’t mind the burn in my muscles after a long session.”

“Less recovery time with a rotary. Lighter. I appreciate it's flexibility.” 

“I like the heft of a coil machine. I want to feel the weight of it in my hand, Snow.”

“Well, lads,” Shep interrupts loudly. “Thanks for giving me the weirdest semi of my life,” he grabs his jacket and pulls it over his lap. Penny loses her composure at that and nearly snorts her drink through her nose. 

“I really must make some girl friends. It’s a travesty this life I’m living doesn’t pass the Bechdel test,” she sighs. “Far too many dicks.”

Simon laughs, and tries to subtly hide it when he readjusts himself beneath the table.

**Penny**

These two morons. They can’t see the way they look at each other, they don’t hear the way they talk. Somebody needs to make something happen. 

And that somebody is me. 

“Simon, get the next round in. Go with him, Baz, you’ve seen how clumsy he can be carrying them back. After your horrifying smutfest earlier I desperately need this next pint to arrive full.” 

When they scrape back their chairs and head off to the bar to order for us, I whirl on Shepard. 

“We need to plot. Fast.”

“About what?” 

“About those two horny idiots.” 

“Wait, those two? Really?”

I glare at him and throw up my hands. 

“They literally just described, in pornographic detail, how they would fuck each other, within the thinly veiled metaphor of tattoo equipment. Well, Shepard, I need them to break through that veil and do something about it.” 

I glance up at the bar. They’ve already been served. Shit. Gotta be quick.

“Alright, the plan is Scotland and I need you to be _all in_ with me.” 

“Scotland?”

“Yes, the tattoo convention, keep up. I have the most excellent idea and I need you to go with it, you hear me?”

“Babe, I will go with you to the ends of the Earth,” Shepard says, lifting my hand off the table and kissing my knuckles. 

“Yes, that’s what I said. To Scotland.”

**Shepard**

Phase One in Penny’s grand plan was getting Baz to agree to attend the tattoo convention with her and Simon. Honestly, I thought that step would be the hardest, but he agreed to it right away.

“I haven’t opened my books yet for that month, so I’m available. It would be a good networking opportunity. Plus, I’ve been out of the country for long enough that it might be worthwhile to make my presence felt once again in the community.” 

I swear, half the time he talks I can’t tell if he’s actually that posh and self-possessed, or if it’s all an act. 

Anyway, he agreed to Scotland.

Now we’re on to Phase Two. 

I’m sat at home with my phone and a script Penny wrote laying out on the table in front of me, awaiting her call. 2:35 she said. 

2:35 on the dot and my phone starts to ring. 

The plan is in motion.

“Good afternoon, Apex Grassmarket Hotel. This is Michael, how may I assist you?” I say loudly, clearly, and in my best English accent. Penny said no to my Scottish one. 

“Yes, hello, good afternoon, Michael. I wonder, would you be able to help me in changing my booking? 

Penny insisted on the script. Even made me practice it. I told her it probably didn’t matter what I said on the other end as long as _her_ performance was convincing. She’s there at Sword of Mages now, with Simon and Baz, changing the booking for the set of rooms we reserved for the tattoo convention. Wink wink. 

“Why yes of course. Could I get a name for your booking, please?” 

“Yes, last name is Bunce. B-U-N-C-E,” she enunciates each letter clearly and loudly. 

Frankly I’m surprised she’d didn’t insist on a prop keyboard I could keysmash at this point for added realism. 

“Penelope?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I see you have two deluxe kings with a castle view booked for March 26th through the 29th?”

“That’s correct.”

“And how may I assist you in changing your booking?” 

“Is it possible to add an additional room to the current booking? For the same dates.”

I pause. Three. Two. One. 

“We do have a room available for those dates, would you like me to add it to your booking now?”

I hear her take the phone from her ear for a moment to talk to Simon and Baz. I can imagine her giving them a little triumphant thumbs up. 

“Yes! Please! Thank you so much.”

“Yes, of course Ms Bunce. Just give me a moment to switch over your booking…You’re lucky, that’s our last room for those dates.” 

I hear Penny mouth “ _L_ _ucky us, we got their last room!”_

“Alright, Ms Bunce, I have you confirmed for three deluxe king castle view rooms March 26th through 29th. Is this correct?”

“That’s correct, thank you so much for your help today, Micah was it?”

“Michael. Of course Ms Bunce, I hope you have a pleasant stay with us.” 

She rings off the call. 

Penny said it’s ok that we’re doing this. She reasons that if the two of them figure it out between now and March they’ll thank us for our ruse, and enjoy the one bed. And if they don’t figure it out before Scotland it will be the perfect opportunity for her to strong arm them into ...something.

I bet Penny was the sort of kid who used to undress all her dolls and then smash their bits together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good thing I use private browser tabs for all my research, cuz my search history would be a wonkey donkey. 
> 
> types of tattoo machines  
> coil vs rotary benefits  
> largest UK Tattoo Conventions  
> hotels in Edinburgh  
> tattoo supplies  
> the part of the tattoo machine that's the long cordy bit  
> cities in India with longest names


	9. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor circulation. Simon's secret tattoos. And a beer garden littered with phone numbers and stars. Merry Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for long hauling it with me and these dumdums. I appreciate your kind and funny comments!
> 
> Apparently daily updates are my thing, so I'll just keep on with this until we're done, if that's alright.

**Baz**

Penelope and Simon have decorated the shop for Christmas, because they hate me. 

There is a gaudy little tree covered in gaudy little baubles. There is bunting and tinsel hanging from every available surface, but only on _their_ side of the room. I was quite insistent my space remain free of their Christmas cheer.

Their side is so tacky it makes my eyes hurt. It offends my delicate sensibilities.

“It continues to be deeply unfair you have your side of the shop decorated, as it means I’m forced to stare at this garish display all day!” I gripe, pulling on my woolen fingerless gloves against the cold. The heat’s on and my workstation is close to the radiator, but I’m still freezing. Like always. Poor circulation. My aunt Fiona blames veganism, but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

“First of all, shouldn’t you be staring at your clients all day instead of our decorations?” Simon grunts from across the room as he organizes his rolling cart with new supplies. 

“Shut up, Simon.”

“Nuh uh, can’t tell me to shut up, we’re on a truce! Penny, tell him!”

“Shut up, Simon,” she says, not looking up from the client she’s working on. 

He grumbles and mutters under his breath, then squats to retrieve something from the bottom shelf of his cart. His trousers ride down low enough I can see the band of his boxers and the small of his lower back. He has a tattoo that starts there, but I can’t make out what it is. Actually, now that I stare a little harder it looks like there may be more than one. It’s all linework, which is unusual for Snow. His tattoos are all so bright and colorful. 

I’m intrigued and would like to see more. 

“Snow. What do you have tattooed on your back?” I ask, clamping my eyes on the sketchbook where I’m working in order to seem nonchalant and disinterested. I don’t care if you answer my query, Simon Snow. I care not a whit. 

He cranes his long neck around to look at me over his shoulder. My toes curl at the sight. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asks, eyes narrowed. 

“Yes, are you even listening? That’s exactly what I bloody asked.” 

“Remember when you wouldn’t tell me about _your_ tattoos?” 

Crowley. That again? 

“Well, I’m going to say the same thing back to you, Pitch. You only get to see when you get me undressed.”

That’s not at all what I said, but alright. 

“Lads,” Penny says, brashly. “Simple solution, go with me on this. You two nip back into the loo and get your kit off for each other.” 

I feel the flush rising at the back of my neck. I see it rise on Simon’s. 

“Shut up, Bunce,” we both say at the same time. 

**Simon**

I love Christmas. I love every little thing about it. I love the decorations. I love the music. I love the weather. I love the chocolate selection boxes. Quality Street (Green Triangle!), Roses (Golden Barrel!), Celebrations (Galaxy Caramel!), Heroes (Wispa! Crunchie Bits! Twirl!!). I love the Christmas markets. And I love the food. I love the food so much. 

I have to ease into it though. It’s too much goodness to dive into all at once. So mid-November I start mulling wine, just to get me in the mood. Then the next week I’ll put up the bunting in my flat, hang the fairy lights over the window. Late November the tree comes out. Some years Penny and Shepard will come ‘round to help decorate and we’ll make a party of it. 

Then on December 1st I go hard:

Music. 

Movies. 

Mince pies. 

I have a pack a day habit towards the end of the month. 

I blame care. Our festivities were entirely dependent on whoever was in charge that year. Some years were joyful and triumphant. Some years the Grinch came and took the last can of Who Hash. Now that I'm on my own I like that I can reliably celebrate something. (Anything.)

I like the setting up and the taking down. I like the routine and the tradition.

This year I'm also liking how much my Christmas spirit is annoying Baz.

It’s Christmas Eve-Eve. Today’s the last day we’ll be open for the next ten days. We’ll all go out for Christmas drinks after work and then, rest. Blissful, delicious rest.

Although I usually get antsy by day four and start messaging people on my waiting list to see if they want to come in to get tattooed. What can I say? Do what you love and you’ll constantly want to work, every single day of your life. 

We’ve finished up with our last client of the day, Penny is seeing them out now, and we’re getting the shop clean and ready for it’s long winter’s nap. 

“Christmas plans, Baz? Going back to some ancestral home on the moors to spend your holidays being fed and pampered and fawned over like a little prince?” I ask. 

Baz snorts and rolls his eyes. Not very aristocratic of him. 

“If you must know, Snow, I’ll be spending the holidays here. I will ring home on Christmas day to have the customary awkward, perfunctory call with my father, immediately followed by a slightly less perfunctory conversation with my step-mother. Then I will Skype with my younger siblings while they open their gifts, which I have already sent by post. Once that’s done I’ll pour myself an obscenely large whiskey and return to ignoring my family for the next 364 days.”

He throws a Dettol soaked wipe into the bin with a satisfied look on his face.

“So...not close to your family, then?” 

“Not remotely. My childhood was bleak.” 

“Huh. Why did I imagine you growing up in some sprawling gothic estate with, like, a nanny to dote on you, getting every single toy you asked of Santa, and wearing fancy little suits to dinner?”

“I don’t know, Snow, why _did_ you imagine that? Anyway, the house is Victorian. Not Gothic. They don’t make many Gothic farmhouses.” 

“Farmhouse? What do you mean, _farmhouse_?”

“My father is a farmer, Snow. Did you really not know that?”

I did _not_ know that. 

“Penny, did you know Baz’s father is a farmer?”

“Yes, I pay attention when people speak, Simon. It’s a novel idea. You should try it sometime.”

“But he’s so...so...”

“So _what_ , Snow?” Baz asks, throwing another wipe into the bin and standing, arms folded across his chest, staring me down. 

“ _This_ ,” I say, gesturing to him, from his shoes to his head and back again. "I mean, look at you."

He’s wearing his shiny black chelsea boots, tight black jeans, and a grey button down underneath a soft looking black jumper. His hair is half up, half down, the up bit being knotted at the back of his head in a little bun. 

He’s so put together. I’ll never look that put together. 

“Do you think, perhaps, you’ve made some unfair assumptions about my life, Snow?” he asks, arms still crossed over his chest. 

“I guess I have, Baz.” 

“And would you like to apologize for that?” 

“Oh, get stuffed!” I say, throwing a box of ink caps at him. He catches it neatly in one hand and tosses it right back at my head. 

“Oi! Get back to work,” Penny shouts at us. 

“Yes, ma’am,” we say at the same time. We seem to be doing that a lot lately. 

**Baz**

The barmaid is flirting with Simon. 

I down the rest of my pint and set it on the table a bit harder than I intended. 

We’ve gone out for Christmas drinks after cleaning and closing up the shop for the holiday. And the damn barmaid won’t stop flirting with Snow. 

She came by earlier to ask if she could clear our glasses when they were all still half full. Half full! 

She rested a hand on Simon’s shoulder and laughed and asked him if he was feeling festive, because he’d just opened his present from Bunce: six packages of mince pies. Disgusting.

Then she had the gall to wink at him and say she couldn’t help but notice his package, nodding down at his feet where a wrapped box has been sitting. 

And then he laughed at that! He laughed!

Christmas is cancelled. 

“Finished already?” Simon asks me. “I’ll get the next round!” He pops up from his seat and trots off to the bar. 

Of course he will. Any chance to go stare at some breasts. 

I slide my chair noisily back from the table. 

“Excuse me, I need to avail myself of the facilities.” 

“Just say you need a piss like a normal person, Baz!” Penny shouts at my back.

I walk straight past the loo, though, to the outdoor beer garden. I walk to a table towards the back and climb onto it, sitting on the tabletop.

There are a couple of people out here smoking. Crowley, it makes me miss smoking. I want to run into their personal space and ask them to breathe their smoke all over me. I want to huff it deep into my lungs and feel the burn of it.

I scratch at the flames tattooed on my palms. No Basilton, no self-destructive habits tonight, please. 

Snow appears at the backdoor of the pub, peering out curiously and looking around. At first I think he’s looking for a quiet spot to take that barmaid and snog her tits off, but then he spots me and a smile spreads wide across his face. 

Alright, so I suppose I’m indulging in one self-destructive habit tonight: Simon Snow. 

He walks across the frost covered grass towards me, carrying the wrapped package from underneath his chair under one arm.

“Penny said you might have come out here. You alright, mate?” he says, setting the package down between us and sitting on the table beside me.

“I’m fine, Snow. Tip top,” I lean my head back and breathe out, the fog cloud of my breath rising and fading into the night sky. It disappears and all I’m left with are stars. Cold and distant.

“I’m sorry about earlier at the shop, for what I said about your family and Christmas. I didn't mean to offend you. I’m-I’m not good with family stuff, clearly.” 

“It’s alright, Snow. I’m not close with my father partly by his choice and partly for my own self-preservation. After a while it became healthier to stop trying so hard. You can’t make someone love you.” 

Do you hear that Basilton Pitch? _You can’t make someone love you._ Is that getting through your thick fucking skull? 

“He’s missing out,” Simon says, emphatically. 

What’s that supposed to mean? 

I sigh and lean back on my elbows, looking up at the stars. They seem so close tonight. Simon leans back, too, his ridiculous neck arching so he can take it all in. For a moment we simply exist, among the stars, together. 

“I bought you a present,” Simon says after a while, nudging the box that sits between us towards my hip. 

“Thank you, Snow. Shall I open it now, or wait until Christmas?” 

“Open it now!” he beams, then his face falls. “Unless you're one of those awful people who slowly and carefully peel back the paper.”

I slap my hand on top of the box and dig my fingernails into the paper, shredding the wrapping aggressively from the present. Simon laughs. 

I place the crumpled up wrappings behind me on the table and look at his gift.

It’s a space heater. It’s a tiny little portable space heater. 

“You always get cold at the shop, whether you want to admit it or not. I thought it might be useful. And it’s matte black, so it’s on brand for your _aesthetics_ ,” I think he tries to imitate my voice when he says the word “aesthetics.”

I run my hand over the packaging. It's cheap. Very cheap. It looks like he bought it at Aldi or something. It’ll probably break in a month.

But he bought it _for me_. He saw it, thought of me, then paid money for it. Then he took it home and wrapped it. All for me.

My heart can’t take it. It aches. It aches worse than anything has ever ached before in the history of aching. 

“Thank you, Simon. It’s incredibly thoughtful,” I take a deep breath and set the little space heater to the side. “I have a Christmas gift for you as well, of a kind. The barmaid is utterly infatuated with you. Go in there and give her your number. I guarantee you’ll pull.” 

“Oh, I know I would, mate.”

“Cocky.” 

“Confident,” Simon says, slipping his hand into his pocket and extracting a bar mat. A bar mat with a phone number and two x’s scrawled on it in distinctly feminine handwriting. “Also, she gave me her number just now.”

He laughs. I don’t. 

“She really seems to fancy you, Simon, you should ring her up while we’re off. Might keep you busy and out of trouble.” 

“Nah, I’m not interested,” he says, and chucks the bar mat over his shoulder into the grass. 

“That’s littering, Snow.” 

Litter. Litter away, Simon Snow. Cover the grass with the discarded phone numbers of busty barmaids. I will pick at your crumbs. I will lap at your dregs. And I will be thankful.

“I’ll pick it up later, Baz. Don’t be so fussy.” 

“I’m not fussy, I’m fastidious.” 

“Whatever.” 

We sit silently for a moment. 

“Why aren’t you going to call her, Simon? She seems nice enough. Very keen.” 

“Not really my type.” 

“Beautiful women handing you beer aren’t your type?” I laugh. “Then who _is_ your type, Simon?”

He shrugs. 

“I’m not really sure I know anymore,” he sighs, before leaning back on his elbows again and staring at the stars.


	10. Bring Vegan Snacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sliding into one another's dm's, a cure for boredom, and conveniently forgotten hats. Bring vegan snacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and all your nice comments. I truly adore reading them. 
> 
> Now, in the grand tradition of the fandom, text messages are as follows:  
>  **Block caps/Bold = Simon**  
>  _Italics = Baz_

**Simon**

This year I don’t get bored and antsy after three days. This year is special. This year it only takes two. 

It’s boxing day and I’ve run out of things to do. I’ve watched films. I’ve eaten food. I’ve gotten pissed and fallen asleep on the sofa. I’ve wanked several times, in several different ways. 

I need something to do. Something to distract me. 

I open instagram and dm Baz. I know he’s around.

**MATE, I’M BORED.**

I send it with a picture of me flopped over on the sofa, my head lolling on my shoulder, tongue hanging out of my mouth.

He responds almost immediately. 

_Perhaps you should take up a hobby. I hear art is a pastime enjoyed by many._

He sends it with a picture of what looks like a vat of green goo with some metal and wires running out of it. What in the fuck is--Oh, he’s working on an etching. 

I rummage for a sketchbook and pencil, draw a quick doodle of me flipping him the V and send it back with the words: **THX FOR ENCOURAGING MY ART** written across it. 

Then I wait all of 3 seconds and message him again. 

**What’s the green stuff?**

_Acid._

**Funny, that's not what it looked like when I took it.**

_Ha. Ha. Ha._

**Why are there wires in it? You making a Frankenstein?**

_You know Frankenstein was the name of the guy that made the monster, right?_

_The monster’s name was Adam._

**You would know that.**

_Yes. I would._

**Speaking of books, didn’t you say you were going to loan me one? Joseph somebody. Hero something.**

_Campbell. Yes, I’ll bring it when the shop reopens._

**Or…**

_Or what, Snow?_

**Or I could drop round and pick it up.**

_...Did you just invite yourself to my flat?_

**I think so.**

**I think that’s exactly what I did.**

**Did it work?**

He’s silent for too long, so I send him a photo of me pouting and looking at him with big puppy dog eyes and the words **pretty please, I’m so fucking bored, Baz. Save me** across it. 

_Alright, Snow, you menace. Come round._

_Bring alcohol._

_And vegan snacks._

**Yessssssssssssss!**

  
  


**Baz**

My stomach is tying itself in knots and honestly, I don’t know if it’s in fear or excitement. 

Calm yourself, Basilton. You’ve been alone in rooms with Snow before. You _shared_ a room first year, remember? 

I stand quiet and still in my flat for precisely one minute after Snow says he’s coming over. Then the madness sets in and I tear through the place putting it to rights. 

Almost an hour later he rings the bell. 

“That’s an awful lot of bags, Snow,” I say, opening the door to him. 

He shrugs. He’s rosy cheeked from the cold and wearing that damn bobble hat he forced upon me once. 

It’s inappropriate for him to look this good, and on Boxing Day, no less. It’s positively unpatriotic.

He smiles his lopsided smile and I show him into my kitchen where he proceeds to set down no less than five bags full of snacks and drink. 

“Are we expecting others? This amount of food seems excessive.”

He shrugs again. “Wanted to make sure I got something you liked. You’re a fussy little eater.” 

Little. 

How dare he? I’ll show him little. 

I step closer to him, make sure he can feel all 3 inches of my superior height.

Except, he’s wearing thick soled boots and I’m in a pair of wool socks, so the height difference is not so great. I play it off by digging through one of the bags. 

“Is that an entire head of cauliflower?” 

“Yeah. It’s vegan, innit?”

“It’s hardly a snack, though.”

“Yes, but I brought both whiskey _and_ vodka. Depending on how pissed we get I might end up needing to eat a whole, raw cauliflower head. I like to be prepared.”

I laugh at the image of drunk Simon Snow tucking into an entire head of raw cauliflower.

“Three different kinds of crisps?” 

“Wasn’t sure what you liked. Realised I haven’t seen you eat crisps since we were roommates and, well, maybe you don't like the same things you liked then.” 

I reach into the bag and extract the salt and vinegar crisps, pulling them open. 

“Snow, my tastes have remained shockingly consistent. Come on, I’ll give you the tour.” 

**Simon**

Baz’s flat is pretty much entirely what I expected. Clean. Minimalist. Smells nice.

His kitchen looks barely used. No dishes in the sink (unlike mine), not even an old mug of tea. Something’s wrong about that. 

His bathroom is clean. Stark. White. One toothbrush in the holder. One towel on the rack. 

There’s some art in the hallway, a couple massive Gustav Dore prints on the wall.

His living room is nice, he has a dark sofa and a single arm chair near a fire. There’s a storage unit of records and a turntable and more art on the walls. Lush oil paintings, beautiful works in vibrant color. 

“Are these your mum’s?” I ask, stepping closer. 

“They are.”

“They’re lovely.” 

“Thank you, Snow.” 

“Nice you have something of hers to surround yourself with. Must feel like you can keep a bit of her close, like she’s still with you.” 

Baz steps over to a wide, tall bookshelf and removes a book. 

“Here. Joseph Campbell. I think it will resonate with you. Keep it as long as you like,” he says. I slip it into my back pocket and he continues with the tour.

There’s a very small spare bedroom which he uses as a studio, he has his etching and art materials here. 

He lets me stare into the acid bath and ask questions about his work. He answers, and I can tell he’s trying to make it concise, stopping himself from going off on a wild tear about his specialist subject until I’m cross-eyed and delirious.

“It’s ok to get excited about stuff, Baz,” I interrupt, staring into the green acidic solution and watching a single bubble float to the top. “You can show some enthusiasm. Stop holding back, it won’t ruin your persona.” 

“What?” he sneers. 

“I just mean, like, clearly etching is your thing. It’s really important to you and you’re passionate about it and I know you’re trying to be polite and not bore me, but like, I can handle it mate. I like art, and I like hearing people get excited about stuff, especially art. And I’m not an idiot. So, tell me about your _process_.” 

There’s a smile twisting at the corner of his mouth and he takes a deep breath. 

“Alright, so the technique that I like best for...” 

I do actually end up zoning out a bit when he starts going on about substrates and resists. I wind up mostly watching his mouth and hands as he talks. 

His mouth usually looks sad. It’s like it’s perpetually pulled down into a pout. Except he’s smiling now, not a hint of pout anywhere to be found as he speaks about his craft. He’s animated. Vibrant. He's so alive.

He finishes talking and zips up the portfolio of prints he was just showing me. 

“I still don’t get why you can’t do acrylics like a normal person,” I say. 

He laughs, and opens the cupboard to replace the portfolio. 

Inside the cupboard I see some tattooing supplies. There’s a tattoo machine, that’s normal. Lots of us have spare machines, or machines for parts at home, or we keep a personal one for doing work on ourselves. 

It’s the tattoo ink beside it that’s stopped me in my tracks. 

“Wait!” I say, putting my foot in front of the cupboard door so he can’t close it.

“What is it, Snow?” 

“What are _those_?” I ask, needling a finger towards the inks. It’s a riot of colour in there. Pinks, purples, yellows, blues, more shades of green than I thought humanly possible. It’s like he’s hoarding rainbows in his cupboard, as if all the colour from the entire flat has been drained and condensed into this one tiny spot. 

“Those are inks, Snow. Crowley, sometimes I question if you’re a professional tattoo artist at all,” he says, trying to force the door closed.

But it’s no use, I’m too determined to know more. I won’t let him close the door until I’m good and ready.

“They’re _colourful_ inks, Baz. Those are colours.”

“Very astute. You can identify colours. This means you’ve finally passed nursery school and are ready for kindergarten.” 

“Shut up. Those are colours and they have clearly been used.”

“Your powers of observation are sharp as always.”

“But you’re a blackwork artist. You work exclusively in black and white,” I say. He’s still trying to close the door on me. 

“Yes,” he replies, indignantly. “What are you getting at?” 

I release my foot from the door. He’s carried forward by the momentum and it slams shut. 

“Nothing, just interesting. Food for thought. Show me your bedroom.” 

I walk out of the room, leaving him to follow. 

I’ll throw him off if I stop asking questions, and anyway, I know all I need to know. Either he’s tattooing people off the books, out of his flat, in full colour (doubtful), or I finally have a lead on his personal tattoos.

  
  
  


**Baz**

If at any point in the past decade you’d told me I’d someday be standing in the bedroom of my flat with Simon Snow beside me, I’d have told you to get stuffed. 

I would also owe you an apology. 

“Mate! You _are_ a vampire! This looks like a fuckin coffin!” he laughs, running his hand down my bedroom wall. It’s painted charcoal grey. There are blackout curtains on the windows, and my duvet is a dark grey velvet. I mean, I get it. I see it.

“For fuck’s sake, Baz, is that a _gargoyle_?!” He says, rushing over to one of the bookcases that flank either side of the head of my bed. 

It is. It is a gargoyle. 

I collected them when I was younger, more morose, more melodramatic (as if that were possible). I think at one point I had over 40 of them. Now I just keep the one. 

I’m too sentimental for my own good.

“You have an actual gargoyle in your bedroom,” he hisses.

“Shut up, Snow,” I reply as he continues to poke around my bookshelf.

“Oh. Oh...is this?” He picks up a framed photo and sits down on my bed to look at it. 

“Oh my god, you’re adorable! Look at you! Ickle baby Basilton.” 

I know the picture he’s holding right now. It’s me as a toddler. Big sad eyes, chubby cheeks, adorable little outfit. My mother’s hands are in the photo, holding me. They’re covered in smudges of paint. 

“Photographic evidence of the last time Baz Pitch wore color,” he laughs, before looking around the room warily. “Wait. Is this weird? That I’m sitting on your bed? Yeah, it’s weird isn’t it. I’m gonna get up.” 

He rises from the bed and replaces the photograph, looking a bit sheepish. 

I want to cross the room and shove him back onto the bed. I want to crawl up his body and growl in his ear that nothing has ever been less weird and more right than him being in my bed, because it’s where he’s always belonged. 

So, of course, I switch off the lights, plunging him into darkness, and leave the room. 

We end up watching football and eating snacks on the sofa. Aston Villa against Crystal Palace. It’s all tremendously normal. 

Neither of us are supporters of Aston Villa or Crystal Palace (could you _imagine?_ ), but that doesn’t dampen any of Snow’s reactions to the match. 

“COME ON!” he’s shouting at the screen and pacing around the room after a particularly bad call from one of the refs. “Don't give him a free kick! That wasn’t a charge!” 

I enjoy watching him. He attacks the world with boundless enthusiasm. He smiles and nods through my ramblings about etchings, as if it's the most interesting he's heard. He shouts and cheers his support for teams he doesn’t really care about. He eats like a man starved, and when I hand him a tumbler of whiskey he leans back and groans with contentment so low and deep it makes my body hurt. He experiences everything so fully. He’s so alive. 

I can see now why I irritate him so much. Simon experiences everything so viscerally, while I’ve worked hard to temper my reactions. The world will see what I want it to see. I dictate the terms. Simon is a wide open book. And me? I’ve purposefully redesigned the cover of mine so no one will want to get in and read too closely. 

Perhaps it’s worked a bit too well. 

“You doing anything for New Year?” he asks, mouth full of crisps. 

“Large parties? Loud crowds? Drunk strangers? No, Snow, I’ll be staying at home.” 

“Same. Don’t like crowds. Not good at parties.” 

“Really? I’d have thought you’d be great at parties. You’re the human equivalent of a labradoodle, everyone would want to pet you and feed you snacks.” 

He laughs at that and rakes his hands through his labradoodle curls. 

“Nah, that’s not really...I’m not,” he sighs. “I don’t think I got properly socialized as a kid, you know? All that time in care, stuck in my own head, spent imagining up a world of magic...that didn’t exactly set me up for a successful social life as an adult,” he huffs, grabbing for his drink. 

“I can relate. My father sort of shut down after mother’s death. Our home was rather remote. Not a lot of children around to play with. I spent a great deal of time on my own.” 

“Thought you had siblings, though?” 

“I was 11 when my father remarried. We didn’t grow up together.” 

“That must have been incredibly lonely.” 

“It was,” I school any self-pity from my voice. 

“Alright, so no big New Year’s Eve party for you. What will you do instead?”

“Probably order takeaway, have a couple drinks, and go to bed early. You?”

“Same, honestly. You know…” Simon finishes his drink before continuing. “You know we could do that together? Might make it feel a little less pathetic.” 

“I never feel pathetic,” I don’t know why I don’t just say yes.

“Alright, fine,” Simon laughs. “I know Baz Pitch doesn’t actually _need_ anyone, but if you _want_ some company that day, I’ll be around.” 

“Thanks, Snow.” 

“Yeah, no problem. Now on that note, it's clear I’ve overstayed my welcome and should let you get back to the very busy task of being alone in your flat for the next week.” 

I want to grab him by the wrist and tell him to stay. Stay forever. Move in now and never leave.

I don't, I let him gather up his things.

“Thanks for having me round, Baz. And thanks for the book and just generally letting me bother you today.”

“You weren’t a bother, Simon.” 

“Right, well. Thanks. See you around, I suppose.” 

“See you around, Simon.” 

Only after he’s gone do I realize he’s left his ridiculous bobble hat. It’s clearly laying on my side table. He would have seen it from the door. 

I open up instagram and send him a dm. 

_Forget something on purpose, Snow? If this is your way of angling for an invitation back…_

I send a picture of the bloody hat along with my message.

About fifteen minutes later he responds with a picture of the front door of his flat, the number clearly visible. 

**You could always come round to mine next time…**

**Bring alcohol.**

**And non-vegan snacks.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wait...is that...is that the buzzing of a tattoo machine coming to life? 
> 
> hmm....


	11. Under Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon gets a sick new tattoo. Baz just gets sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Texting is as follows:  
>  **Bold = Simon**  
>  _Italics = Baz_  
>  \-----  
> Thank you for reading and for your brilliant comments, I truly adore and appreciate your reactions to this fic!

**Baz**

Simon and I have seen each other twice more since Boxing Day. I still don’t know if I can stand to spend New Years with him, but it’s been nice spending time with him outside the shop. 

By nice I mean torture.

He’s messaging me now. 

**Was thinking about going into the shop and giving myself some work...**

**but then I remembered...**

**you owe me a tattoo.**

_I don’t recall owing you anything._

**three of swords. You said I could have it and then you RUDELY never tattooed it on me.**

_What are you doing in an hour?_

**Getting tattooed. By you.**

_See you at the shop. Bring vegan snacks._

This is our banter now. Telling one another where to go and when, then making demands about snacks.

He’s already at the shop by the time I arrive, I’ve noticed he’s always a bit early for everything. I think it’s an Ebb thing. A holdover of his fear that if he’d been there just a bit earlier he’d have saved her. 

He’s cranked the heating up for me and is prepping my workstation, laying out everything the way I like. 

The sight of it makes me weak. 

“Baz!” he beams as I walk through the door. 

“Snow. You look keen to get started.” 

“Hope it was alright,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess maybe I shouldn’t have invaded your territory.”

Invade my territory, Simon. Invade it.

“It’s fine. That was kind of you. Have you already filled out the waiver?”

“What waiver?” 

“ _The_ waiver. The one we make all our customers fill out before we tattoo them. You _are_ making your customers fill out the waiver, aren’t you, Snow?”

“I know about the damn waiver, Baz, I just wasn’t sure why you needed me to sign it.”

“If you want to be tattooed by me, you have to sign the waiver. No exceptions.”

“Fine,” Simon grouses before heading up to the front counter and grabbing a clipboard and a pen. “I’ll sign the damn waiver for you, you fussy little rule follower.” 

He keeps calling me little. I don’t actually think I mind it. I'd be little for him. Him and no one else. I'd curl up in his lap and let him pet me.

I set up the rest of my station while Simon fills out the form. His tongue pokes out of the side of his mouth as he writes. It’s adorable. I’d like to lean over and pinch it between my fingers. 

“Done!” Simon announces, holding the clipboard aloft. 

“It’s just a liability waiver, Simon, you needn’t sound like you’ve just finished penning _War and Peace_.” 

I take the clipboard from his hand and give his form a scan. He’s filled in all the necessary boxes appropriately, but he’s also taken artistic license around the corners and edges of the form. There’s a doodle of me as a vampire, baring my fangs and hissing. Then one of me sinking my fangs into a carrot. He’s scribbled a picture of me with short hair he’s labelled ‘Baz’s worst nightmare’. And he’s drawn a picture of me with little hearts for eyes staring at a--

“Simon, what’s this?” I ask. He’s positively beaming. 

“That’s a merwolf. You love ‘em.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“I’m a professional artist.” 

“Shockingly, yes. You are. Now get in the damn chair.” 

I’ve already copied the design to special paper, ready to transfer to wherever he’d like. 

“Alright, Snow. Thoughts on placement?” 

“I was thinking of a couple spots, but I want your opinion. You’re the professional.” 

“You are _also_ the professional.” 

“Yes, but it’s _your_ design. I want to defer to _your_ expertise,” he’s earnest when he says it. 

“Alright, then where are you thinking?” 

“First spot is the back of my right ankle,” he says, lifting the leg of his jeans a bit and showing me where he’s thinking. It’s good. It would work. Also, I like seeing his ankle.

“Other spot is on my thigh.”

His thigh.

His fucking thigh.

I try not to choke on my own saliva, and remind myself I’m a professional.

“Talk out the pros and cons of each placement, Snow.” 

“Ankle is, well, it’s available space, innit? Problem is, I’d never get to see it. It’d be there for other people.”

“And your thigh?” I notice my own thighs are clenching as I speak to him. 

“Well, I’d be able to see it. I’d see it everyday. Plus,” his blue eyes blaze with excitement. “I was thinking, anyone looking at me would see it as a regular old Three of Swords, but the way _I_ would see it is inverse. I like that. So the world might see sorrow and grief when they look at me, but I get to see hope and forgiveness.”

Bend me over your tattoo chair and take me now, Simon Snow, you brilliant, gorgeous man. 

“It seems like you’ve thought out your options thoroughly.” 

“Alright, Baz, drop the professionally neutral act. Where should I get it?” 

“Thigh.” 

He beams at me. “That's what I was hoping you'd say. Alright. Well. Trousers off.”

Oh. Oh no. 

He doesn’t even go into the loo to do it. He just kicks off his boots, unfastens the flies of his jeans and wiggles (wiggles!) out of them in the middle of the shop. Then he tosses them over his tattoo chair and turns to me with a shrug. 

“Do you want me to do the shaving part?” 

Oh Crowley, I have to shave the spot on his thigh where he wants the tattoo. It’s like I’ve forgotten every basic element of the tattooing process. Get it together, Basilton. 

“No, I don’t trust you to do it properly.” 

“We share a tattoo shop. You’ve seen me work,” Simon says defensively. 

“Exactly. Now sit down and don’t fidget.” 

I am a consummate professional. Simon is my client, and I’m capable of taking care of his needs without devolving into giggling, crying, or lustful touching. (Although I seriously consider doing all three, potentially at the same time.)

I’ve transferred the design to his thigh and he’s approved the placement, so now I’m ready to get to work. 

Which is why I’m currently sitting between Simon’s legs, my hands on his upper thigh. It’s soft, but muscley underneath, and it radiates warmth. I would like to lay my head down here and take a nap.

“Ready?” I ask, turning on my machine. The coil. 

“Very,” he replies. 

I take a deep breath and get started. 

Usually clients will scroll social media, or listen to music while I work. Some will want to talk, but not always. (They’re my favorites, the non-talkers.) 

I wonder which one Simon will be. 

He leans his head back against the cushion of the chair and closes his eyes. 

Is this motherfucker going to take a _nap_?

I suppose that would be alright, actually. I can pretend I’m tattooing some random client, and not etching a permanent reminder of myself on the leg of the man I love. 

_He chose this spot because he’ll see it every day._ Shut up, brain. 

For a while it’s just the buzz of the tattoo machine keeping me company. 

Simon’s pulled up the leg of his boxers a bit so I have clear access to the spot I’m tattooing. They have alternating purple and green vertical stripes. They’re cute, for cotton boxers. 

Honestly, I don’t know how I’m not swallowing my own tongue right now. Blessedly there is some part of my brain that has shut down and is allowing me to focus solely on the work, because otherwise? 

_Otherwise_? 

Otherwise, we would have a problem. 

“Doing alright? Need a break?” I wipe up the excess ink, cover the spots I’ve just tattoed with vaseline. 

He hums, low in his throat. “Mmm, no. I’m fine. You’re good at this, Baz.”

“Yes, I’m a professional tattoo artist.”

“No, I mean--yes, you are. Clearly. But you’re _good_ at it. Not every professional gets the balance right, but you do. Doesn’t hurt a bit, it’s just that nice tingly scratch, you know?” 

I do know. 

I continue on a while longer, dipping into inks, wiping away the excess, holding the skin of his thigh in place with the fingers of my opposite hand. After a bit I notice Simon’s face starting to contort. 

“Hurting, Snow?” I ask. It shouldn’t be. The thigh’s a good spot to tattoo, nice and meaty. 

“No, not hurting...umm…could we take a break though? Just a quick one?” 

“Of course,” I turn off the machine, give his work one last wipe and roll away from him so he has room to stand. 

He doesn’t stand. He squirms a bit in the chair. 

“If you need the loo, Simon, just go.”

“Umm, I think,” he starts to laugh, scrubbing his hands over his face and then folding them in his lap. “Christ, this is embarrassing, but I think all the vibrations from the tattoo machine were starting to get to me a bit.”

“What do you-- _oh_ ...” I very purposefully do _not_ look at his lap. I’m avoiding looking there at all costs, despite having recently been sat right in front of it. 

“Yeah,” Simon laughs, and jumps up from the chair, headed for the loo. “Gimme a minute.” 

I hear the door click behind him and saliva floods my mouth. 

Did I just? Did he? Is he? 

I snap off my gloves, throw them in the trash, and grab my water bottle. Despite all the saliva in my mouth I am suddenly tremendously thirsty. 

Simon emerges quickly. The front of his hair looks damp, he must have been splashing water on his face. 

“Sorry, Baz,” he laughs loudly. “That was awkward as hell, wasn’t it?!”

“It’s fine, Snow. It’s a fair reaction. Our bodies process unique sensory input in unexpected ways.”

“Sure, sure. Yeah. I bet you say that to all the boys,” he says, hopping back up into the chair. 

I shut off my brain, pull on another pair of gloves, set myself up between Simon’s legs, and get back to work.

“Hey Baz?” 

“Yes?”

“You’ve always been really good at getting under my skin.”

No, Simon, no. Do not ruin this moment with tattoo puns.

“Do you get it, Baz? Because you irritate the shit out of me and also--”

“I get it Simon. Now, please stop talking before I ruin your tattoo on purpose.”

"You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?"

It doesn’t take long to finish. It looks good. It’s the size of an actual tarot card, nearly the length of my hand. It’s all black linework, and you can see his pale flesh through the lines. It’s more pale flesh than lines, really. There are a few choice freckles that dot the design, and suddenly I realise I’m staring at Simon’s thigh and noticing things about it. 

Like a tiny little scar on the outside of his thigh. 

And the scattering of freckles all over.

And the darker hair that runs up the inside. 

“Alright, get your lazy ass up and out of my chair, Snow. I’m done. Go take a look,” I shove myself out of the way, and he goes to the mirror to examine himself. I watch as his head twists back and forth, taking it in. 

I see his broad smile reflected in the mirror. Good. He likes it. 

Then I let my eyes wander down his body. 

He has a few tattoos on the back of his thighs and calves. Some that I can’t quite make out, but there is one that is absolutely and immediately recognizable. 

A tail. He has a tail. 

Just an outline of one. Thick black linework. It’s part of the tattoo I couldn’t make sense of before. It must start at his lower back and snake downward. I can see the place where it emerges from the leg of his boxers and travels down his thigh before wrapping around the front of his leg and finally back to end in a pointed spade that flicks out to the side. 

It’s a devil’s tail, or a demon’s. 

“Snow. Do you have a tail?” I ask. 

“Damn. I forgot you’d be able to see that,” he laughs, before turning to face me. His tail does, indeed, wrap around the front of his leg before ending in that ridiculous point. It’s honestly a brilliant design. I wish it were filled in with some tight lines of hatching. Exactly my style. What would he do if I suggested it? Why is it that all I want to do now is mark Simon Snow? Pathetic.

“Why do you have a devil's tail?” 

“Well, that’s a long story.” 

“I still have to clean up, we have time.” 

He sighs and chews on his lip. 

“It’s fine, Snow, you don’t have to tell me,” I strip off the disposable plastic sheathing from my clip cord and throw it in the bin. “Come here, I still need to bandage you up.” 

“I can do that myself.” 

“ _Can_ you? I’ve seen your customers leave here when you’re done with them,” I snark, retrieving everything I need from my cart. 

“You know, I’m an entirely capable, highly sought-after tattoo artist. I’m not actually an idiot,” he pouts, but he still crosses the room to stand in front of me. 

I know, Simon. I know you’re capable. More-than. You’re extraordinary. But let me have just one more moment to kneel before you and touch you gently, before I have to stop doing it forever. 

He lets me cover his tattoo, taping the corners, and then I lecture him on aftercare, even though I know he knows how to take care of a tattoo. His aftercare instructions are quite good, in fact. Of course they are, he's a caregiver by nature.

“There. All done. Tip please,” I say, holding out my hand. 

“HA! You’re funny.” 

“I’m dead serious. Pay me.” 

“Really?” 

“No, not really,” I say. “I was happy to do it. Pay me back in vegan snacks.”

“What about vegan dinner?” 

“What?”

“Vegan dinner. Food. Now. You have other plans or something?”

“No.”

“Let me put my trousers on and we can get dinner. Will you eat a curry?”

“Simon, I will _devour_ a curry.” 

  
  
  


**Simon**

Somewhere along the walk to the curry house I decide I should tell Baz about my tattoos. He’s talking about a gallery that wants to show his work in late Spring, and his excitement and good mood are rubbing off on me, making me feel up to the task.

We sit across from one another and order. I ask multiple times to make sure everything in his dish will be vegan. He gives me a weird look as I do it. 

“What?” I ask, leaning back in the booth after our server has left. 

“I can take care of myself, you know. I’ve survived as a vegan these many years without you mumming me.” 

“I’m not mumming you.” 

“You did. That was textbook mumming. You practically asked to go into the kitchen and cook my food yourself.” 

“Mate, nobody wants that. I’m a rubbish cook.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. If I can’t dump it onto a baking sheet or reheat it in a microwave I’m useless.” 

“I don’t know why that surprises me.” 

“I don’t know why either, you’re always telling me I’m half-numpty. I’d have thought you’d be more surprised at discovering something I was good at.” 

He tugs his lower lip between his teeth and his brow furrows. 

“I’m sorry I’ve made you feel that way, Simon.” 

“It’s alright. It’s our thing, innit?”

“What is?”

“Making the other feel like shit.” 

Samosas arrive at that point and I have to stop talking. It’s extremely important that I stuff hot food into my mouth in order to burn my soft palate. 

“You could just wait until they cool, you know,” Baz says, eyebrow arched, watching me intently. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” I manage to ask, between scalding mouthfuls of potato and veg. 

He smiles and watches me tear through the rest of the samosas. 

When our mains arrive I get a few bites in, and then clear my throat.

“I’ll tell you about my tattoo now.” 

Baz sets down his fork. “It’s alright, Simon, you don’t have to.” 

“I’d like to. Umm, it’s just--kinda difficult.”

It’s difficult because I can’t tell the story of how I got my tattoos without telling the story of how Ebb died. I don’t like poking that wound too often.

“So, how much did Penny tell you about Ebb?” I ask.

“A bit. She told me you were extremely close, like family. She told me some nutter off the street attacked her, and that you blame yourself for not being there when it happened.”

“I was supposed to meet her. I’d had the day off and I was meant to meet up with her so we could close up and then go see some band she was into. I lost track of time and didn’t get to the shop until late. By the time I got there…”

Baz reaches across the table, slowly, so slowly, as if he’s scared I’ll growl and snap at him. He places the tips of his fingers nearly against the tips of mine. We’re not even touching, really. 

“It’s not your fault, Simon. It wasn’t your fault.” 

“I know that now, Baz. I know. If I’d have been there it might have gone differently, or it might not. I’ll never know.” 

“It must have been awful, finding her.” 

“It was. I still have nightmares about it.” 

He hasn’t pulled his hand away. I don’t think I want him to. It’s making it easier to talk about Ebb.

“After her death I spiraled pretty hard.”

“I can relate.”

I hazard a glance to his grey eyes. His face is open and earnest. That’s a rarity. He gives me a sad little half smile.

“I went to a pretty dark place.”

“Again, same.” 

I huff out a laugh. 

“And I decided to take some of that out on myself by getting a pretty epically stupid pair of tattoos.”

“Pair?”

“Pair. The demon wings and tail are a matching set.” 

“Demon?”

“Devil. Demon. Whatever. That’s what I felt like. I felt like--like--all I brought was trouble. Destruction. A complete waste of space. A monster.”

“You’re not a monster, Simon. You’re the hero of the story, remember?” Baz says. I pull my hand off the table and gulp my water. 

“Now you know about the tattoos on my back. Self-loathing demon parts to warn the world what an awful person I am.” 

We sit in silence for a moment. 

“I wish you’d speak nicer about yourself,” Baz says. 

“You and my therapist both, mate,” I laugh. Baz laughs too. 

Then we go back to eating. 

“Is there anything you want to share with _me_?” I ask, after a while, hoping he’ll get the hint. 

“This curry is good. I was right to choose the rajma daal.” 

“Nothing _else_ you might feel like sharing?”

“If you’re angling for some of my food you can fuck right off. I don’t share.”

I smack my hand against the table and Baz laughs. 

“No you twat, I’m talking about your tattoos,” I hiss quietly.

“I know.” 

“Come on, Baz! I told you about mine!” 

“You did, and of your own freewill. But I’ve already set forth the terms for knowing about my tattoos. They cannot be renegotiated.” 

“You’re such a twat.” 

“I’m well aware.” 

  
  
  


**Baz**

The decision as to whether or not I will spend New Year’s in Simon’s company is, in the end, made for me when I wake up the morning of with a high fever and chills. Which is infuriating. I never get sick. I have an immune system like a tank. 

I’ve already missed 4 messages from Simon about getting together. 

**Baz, mate, we doing new years?**

**I have vegan snacks.**

**And nonvegan snacks, just to make you angry.**

**And truly irresponsible amounts of alcohol.**

What I want right now is soup. And tea. And I’m having a desperate, pathetic desire to be cuddled. 

I message him back. 

_Sorry to disappoint, Simon, but I’m out of commission for the day. Sick._

He responds immediately. 

**Mate, if you don’t want to get together you can just say so.**

I take my temperature again and send him a photo of the results, along with a message. 

_Not that I need to prove anything to you, Snow, but I do actually have a fever._

**Shit! that’s high! Do you need anything?**

**Soup?**

**Tea?**

For a moment I think the universe has heard my desperate cry and taken pity on me, and his next message will be “cuddles”, but sadly it’s not. 

**Meds?**

**I can drop them by.**

_No, I’m fine. Think I just need to sleep it out._

**Promise me you’ll let me know if you need anything?**

_Sure. I promise._

I pull the covers over my head and fall back asleep. 

Late that afternoon my phone goes off with several rapid-fire messages, waking me up. 

They’re all from Simon. He’s sent a picture of the front door of my flat with several bags set in front of it. 

**Being sick is a crap way to spend new years, so I kind of went and got you stuff anyway.**

**Sorry/you’re welcome.**

**Nothing is gonna go off, you can leave it all out in the hall as long as you like...just...wanted to msg in case you had dodgy neighbors...**

**Sorry if I woke you.**

**Probabl ydid with all these msgs. Shit. Fuss at me about it the next time you see me.**

**Feel better soon.**

**(ps. this** **_might_ ** **count as mumming you)**

I haul my aching body out of bed and shuffle to the front door. Simon is gone by the time I get there, so I lug the bags into my kitchen and take stock. 

He’s got me meds, and squash (apple and blackcurrant, my favorite), and two kinds of tea (herbal and regular), plus oat milk for the tea, and a whole box of sugar. There’s a bottle of lucozade, and he's scratched over the name and written _Goth Hummingbird Feed_ on it in sharpie. 

He’s bought more tins of soup than I could eat in a week. There’s a bar of vegan chocolate. He’s also bought me a single head of cauliflower. 

I laugh as I unpack the bags, then I notice there’s a folded piece of a4 paper tucked inside one of them. Inside there is a hastily drawn sketch of me (as a vampire) and him (holding a sword) fighting off a disgusting green blob monster he’s helpfully labelled “Baz’s Lurgy”. 

I find some cellotape and stick it to the fridge. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot take: Simon doesn't have dragon wings. Thems devil/demon wings. He went to a dark place, yo. (I know he calls them his Dragon Parts, but like, let me have my theeeeeeories)
> 
> Also, briefly, this fic was gonna be called Under Your Skin. It was just too much, though, so I saved it for the title of a chapter.
> 
> Thanks for all your amazing comments!! They sustain me!!


	12. Birthday Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vegan inks, Baz has a visitor, and the world's worst cake. The tattoo convention draws nearer...

**Penny**

“Hey, Shep, can you update the website to say the shop uses all vegan inks?” Simon calls out as he emerges from the storage room. We’ve been back at work for a few weeks now, and all three of us are seeing clients at the moment, while Shepard works at the front going through some emails. He's trying to help us slog through all the requests for the Scottish Tattoo Convention.

Baz glares at Simon from over his client’s chest piece he’s working on. “You know you can’t just say that, right? You have to _actually use_ all vegan inks in order to put it on the website.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Simon says, holding up a nearly-empty bottle of orange ink and shaking it aggressively in Baz's direction, before chucking it in the bin. “That was my last bottle of non-vegan ink.” 

“Wait, what?” Baz’s eyebrows furrow. I kind of love when he gets confused. And I love when Simon is the one confusing him. Baz acts like he knows everything. So confident and self-assured. I like seeing someone like Simon sweep the legs out from under him.

I jump in to answer first. “I started switching my inks over when you first agreed to work here. I figured it was only a matter of time before you were lecturing us to go vegan.” 

I’m eternally grateful for the fact he’s never actually lectured us to go vegan. That would not end well for him.

“I started after the truce,” Simon shrugs. He’s unwrapping a new orange ink, adding it to his rolling cart of supplies. 

“That's...” Baz trails off.

“It’s alright, Baz. You don’t have to say anything. I know how hard it is for you to say anything nice. Ever. About anything."

We all get back to work. It’s quiet for the next hour or so. 

“Alright, guesses about Baz’s personal tattoos?” Simon calls out, about thirty minutes into tattooing his new client. “I’ll get us started. I think it’s a full blackout suit. His entire body is covered in black ink from wrist to ankle,” Simon smiles.

Shepard chimes in without looking over his shoulder, “Why does that seem racist to me?”

“I dunno, they’re Baz’s tattoos. Take it up with him.” 

“What about rainbows? Like, a full rainbow bodysuit?”

“That feels homophobic,” Baz responds. 

“Maybe he has the text of an entire book tattooed on him, in tiny little letters,” Shepard suggests. 

“Hmm, what book though?” Baz asks. He’s handling this well. He’s not getting upset by Simon’s goading.

Not goading. Flirting. Simon’s flirting.

“What book...what book…” Simon thinks aloud. “Paddington.” 

Baz laughs. “Nothing wrong with Paddington, Snow.” 

“Kawaii tattoos? Like Sanrio characters and stuff?” Shepard suggests. 

“Oooh, that’s good. Or just one very small tattoo of a dolphin on his right ankle.”

“So tasteful!” 

“It’s actually on my _left_ ankle,” Baz replies.

I’m staying out of this. If Baz wants to keep his personal work personal, let him.

“Got it!” Simon cries. “Portraits of all the Blue Peter presenters, years 1990-2000. With a Blue Peter Badge tattooed over his heart.”

“What’s a Blue Peter?” Shepard asks. 

“How dare you! It’s an institution!” Baz calls out. “A beloved children’s program that has run for decades. How is that not on the citizenship test?!”

“See?!” Simon crows. “It’s definitely the Blue Peter portraits.” 

“What about a portrait of the queen? Is that too on the nose?” Shepard asks. “WITH her corgis?”

“Or a giant tattoo of his own face!” Simon gets lost in his laughter.

“Giant tattoo of _your_ face, more like,” I whisper under my breath. Baz raises a single eyebrow, staring daggers at me.

“You know,” I raise my voice. Baz looks like he’s about to launch himself across the room and throttle me with his clip cord. “This truce of yours is bullshit. It’s not about actually being kind to one another, it’s about continuing to be shitty and pretending not to get upset. That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Why not, Bunce? It’s our truce. Shouldn't we dictate the terms?”

“But it’s not really a truce, then, is it? It’s business as usual, but nobody is allowed to fight back.”

“Seems to be working out alright,” mutters Simon. 

“I think we should test the bounds of this truce…”

“Bunce,” Baz says warningly. I disregard his warning. I know what needs to be done.

“I think you should say something nice about the other person. Right now.” 

The shop is full of the buzz of our tattoo machines, and the resounding silence of both Simon and Baz. 

“Come on, there must be one nice thing you can say about the other?” 

Simon turns off his machine and wipes at his client’s arm before speaking. “Baz has good style. He always dresses nice.” 

“That’s not a compliment, that’s a fact,” Baz smirks, continuing to work on his client as Simon powers his machine back up. 

“Nice, Simon. A little superficial, but nice.” 

Silence.

“Baz? Your turn.”

He continues working on his client for a while before speaking. 

“I think Snow has one of the most brilliant and creative minds I’ve ever known. And I think he should seriously consider publishing his drawings and notes about the World of Mages.” 

It takes me a couple beats to recover. I wasn’t expecting something so heartfelt and genuine. There wasn’t even a small bit of snark in a single word he said. 

I glance between Simon and Baz. They’re both still tattooing, both focused on their work, Simon with a ridiculous grin on his face. 

  
  
  


**Simon**

January passes in a rush. It always passes in a rush. February, too. I hardly see Baz, really only when he's here at the shop tattooing someone. He’s getting ready for a big gallery show of his etchings and it’s taking up all his time. Before we know it, it’s nearly March. 

We’ve finished with our clients for the day and are cleaning up the shop. Penny and Shepard are headed out to see a film together. I think I’ll probably just head home and go to sleep. I’m knackered. 

Baz finished cleaning his station a bit ago and has been in the loo ever since. I don’t know why, it’s my turn on the rota to clean in there, but isn't there something about gift horses and mouths?

Then he steps out. 

“Baz--you’re wearing a suit.” 

“Wow, my dude, looking hot!” Shepard says, then wolf whistles. 

“Don’t encourage a culture of objectification,” Penny says, slapping Shepard softly in the stomach. “You do look hot, though, Baz.” 

He’s blushing a bit, you’d have to know him well to be able to notice. It’s just a faint deepening of color on his cheeks, but I see it. His suit’s nice. Black. Fitted to his body. He looks good, but then, he always looks good. 

“Why are you wearing a suit?” I ask. Stupid. I know why. He’s got a date. 

“Nicer restaurants require something other than joggers or jeans, Simon,” he says, putting his work clothes away in a bag at his station. “And unfortunately I didn’t have time to go home and change after my last client.”

He’s done something different with his hair. He’s braided two bits of it on either side and gathered them to the back. I like it. It looks good. He must really like this guy he’s seeing.

“Where are you off to, looking so fresh?” Shepard asks. 

“My Aunt Fiona is in town for the weekend and wanted to get together for dinner. We haven’t seen one another in a while; she’s been traveling for work.” 

On cue, the door jangles and in walks an older, female version of Baz. She has the same sneer, same high, sharp cheekbones, and same hair, except for a stark streak of white that cuts through hers. 

“Fiona,” Baz says. 

“Nephew!” she calls out, advancing on Baz and wrapping him in an aggressive hug. “You look well.” 

“I feel well.” 

“Not dead yet of vegan-induced malnutrition?”

“Seemingly not.”

“This is nice,” she says looking around the shop and taking it in. “I guess I was expecting more cigarette smoke and beefy biker dudes.”

“No, Fiona, you seem to have confused a cartoon with real life. This is an actual professional tattoo shop. Human adults work here, and we like things to smell and look nice.” 

“Maybe I think beefy biker dudes smell and look nice,” she laughs. I laugh too. 

“Fiona, may I introduce you to Penelope and Shepard?”

She shakes hands with them before turning on me, a funny look on her face.

“And _this_ must be the great Simon Snow."

She approaches and takes my hand in hers. 

“It’s _very_ nice to finally meet you, Simon Snow.” 

She has a kind of strange glint in her eyes as she says it. I guess Baz must have told her about some of the stuff that happened between us at art school. I can’t blame him for telling her. Or her for hating me because of it. 

“Nice to meet you too,” I say, extending my hand. She takes mine in hers, clutching my hand tightly. 

“My nephew has told me _so_ much about you,” she continues to shake my hand. I feel like I can’t move.

“I don’t know what Baz might have told you, but I promise I’m not the same twat I was back then.”

"No, he's a completely different kind of twat now."

"From what I heard--" Fiona starts, but is immediately cut off.

“Fiona! Surely we need to leave now to make our table?”

“What?” she says, still holding my hand in her death grip. “Yeah yeah, sure, birthday boy.”

“ _Birthday boy?!_ ” we all explode at the same time. 

“Did he not tell you it’s his birthday? Basilton. Must do better,” Fiona laughingly chides. 

Baz looks furious. 

I didn’t know it was his birthday. Why didn’t he tell us it was his birthday?

“I told you not to make a big deal of it,” Baz growls through gritted teeth. 

“You’re the one wearing a suit, mate, seems like you’re the one who made a big deal out of it."

“Who, him? He’ll take any excuse to wear a suit,” Fiona laughs again, extracting a packet of cigarettes from her bag and tamping them in her hand. 

“I’ve literally never seen him in a suit before,” I say. 

“Baz, you’re holding out on us,” Shepard adds. 

“Goodnight Bunces. Snow,” Baz says, grabbing his aunt’s arm and tugging her from the shop. 

“Goodnight, birthday boy!” we call after them. 

“Well that was weird,” I say, getting back to my cleaning. 

“Yeah it was. She had great hair though.”

“Must run in the family.” 

  
  


**Baz**

The next morning there is an entire children’s party worth of decorations surrounding my workstation. 

“ _This!_ ” I shout, marching straight to my supply cart and grabbing a pair of scissors. “ _This_ is why I didn’t tell you it was my birthday! I knew you two gremlins would do something ridiculous and immature.” 

“Ridiculous and immature? Mate, I think not telling us it was your birthday was pretty ridiculous and immature.” 

I grab the strings of the balloons they’ve tied to my tattoo chair and start snipping. A few of them slide out of my hand, floating off to the ceiling. I snarl at them, willing them to come back down, or pop, or better yet, disappear completely, taking me with them. 

“There’s a cake, too!” Penelope chirps.

“Wait til you see it,” Simon adds, with a laugh. “It’s just _awful_.” 

“I don’t like making a big deal out of my birthday. I’m not a child anymore! I don’t need a fuss!” I’m still rabidly snipping balloons and pulling down bunting. Paddington bunting. Get stuffed, Simon. 

“Oi, Baz,” Simon says. I turn to glare at him. “Happy Birthday.” 

He deploys a tiny little confetti-filled party popper at just that moment. 

I could kill him. Or kiss him. Either one. Maybe both. The order of which I’ve yet to determine.

At lunch that day Penny, Simon, and I all have a break from clients. Sometimes it works out this way, sometimes we’re all off at the same time and will eat together, or sit around talking. Some days it’s just Simon and I. Those days are the best and the worst.

Simon goes to the little fridge we keep towards the back of the shop. He extracts a cake covered in cling film and brings it to the front counter. 

“I won’t do candles, even though I bought them, because I figure you’ll have an aneurysm, and start shouting about birthdays again. Don’t want to burn the whole shop down cuz you couldn’t control your emotions,” he laughs and nudges the cake towards me, unwrapping it.

He was right when he said the cake was awful. It’s lopsided, and sagging in the middle, and the icing looks like it’s so embarrassed by the state of things that it’s trying to slide off the plate. 

“Simon made it himself,” Bunce practically sings. 

“I can tell.” 

“Oi! Effort went into that! There weren’t any vegan cake shops open by the time I knew it was your birthday! I _had_ to make it myself!” 

“You didn’t _have_ to do anything, Simon.”

“Course I did. It was your birthday.”

Of course he did, because he’s _Simon._

He extracts that awful butterfly knife from his back pocket and twirls it open. 

“You’re not using that to cut my cake.”

“...except I definitely am?”

“At least wash it first, before we all get an infection.”

“Oh, alright,” he says, trotting off to the loo to wash his disgusting knife, mumbling all the way about me being fussy.

“I’ve never known him to bake a cake for anyone before,” Penelope says, leaning hard on the counter and staring at me over the top of her ridiculous cat-eye glasses. 

“That’s probably a good thing. Look at it. He’d have even fewer friends if he went around making them cakes like this.”

“No, Basilton, I mean, _you_ are the only person he has ever made a cake for. He put in effort. It’s a _gesture_.” 

Simon rejoins us at that point, waving a clean, dry knife in my face. I should be more scared by that, right? Instead it does something deep in my belly. I’ll deal with that later.

“Better now, Baz? Want me to dip it in Dettol first, just to be safe?” 

“The basic sanitation of washing should suffice, Snow. Now, get that knife out of my face and cut me my birthday cake.” 

He smiles and cuts a massive slice. Far more than I could ever eat in one sitting. 

Because Simon only got as far as thinking through the cake, we haven’t anything to eat it on or with. Bunce fetches kitchen roll, and we pick at it with our fingers. 

It tastes worse than it looks. I eat the whole slice, Simon smiling at me all the while. It’s the best birthday cake I’ve ever had.

At the end of the day, on my way out of the shop, I pause at Simon’s workstation. He’s cleaning and organizing his tools. He still has another client to tattoo before his day is done. 

“Thank you for my cake, Simon.”

“Of course. Sorry for all the balloons and decorations and stuff. I just got to thinking last night that we probably didn’t have an excess of happy birthdays when we were kids, you know? And we deserve happy birthdays.”

Fuck him. Fuck Simon Snow right in his beautiful, empathy-filled heart. Fuck him for being able to wheedle right into my soul and find the weakest parts of me, and then attempt to patch them up with icing sugar and soft smiles. 

“When’s your birthday, Snow?” I ask, then immediately bite my tongue because, shit. Orphan.

“June 21st. At least that’s when I was dropped at the hospital. Could actually be a day or two before, I guess.” 

June 21st. I get out my phone, add it to my calendar. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Making sure I remember your birthday. I’m envisioning a Peppa Pig theme.” 

He laughs, and his eyes crinkle until I can barely see any blue. 


	13. Combustible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny's plotting, a room with a view, and surprising pyjamas. The gang travel up for the Scottish Tattoo Convention and irreparable damage is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are longer than previous, as a heads up.
> 
> Also, just in case someone missed it, the rating was upped from T to M several chapters ago.

**Penny**

  
We fly up to Edinburgh for the tattoo convention at the end of March. There was some discussion of hiring a car, Baz and Shepard both have their licenses, but that’s an awful lot of expense. Plus, Simon and Baz spent an entire afternoon arguing over what kind of car to hire, and the thought of being stuck in a vehicle with them for hours on end made my brain melt. If a car could be run on sexual tension and bickering we’d have saved a lot of money on petrol, though.

Instead Simon and Baz sit next to one another on our flight, engaged in a heated debate about the ethics of sponsorship deals in the tattooing industry. 

Those morons will argue over whether the sky is blue or fire is hot. They’ll argue over anything. They pick an awful lot of fights lately, more than they did before the truce, honestly. I wish they’d just bang it out already. 

We take a cab out to the venue to get set up. Load-in is today, then the convention for two days, and finally a day off at the end to just enjoy ourselves before we have to fly back. I’m excited to have some time with my husband. Work has been overwhelming lately, and he is so endlessly patient. And so endlessly cute. 

Load-in doesn’t take terribly long. We’re able to get our table and merch set up quickly. A friend made up a custom banner for our shop, with the logo and our names beneath. We set it up behind our booth and then step back to examine how it all looks. 

It looks exceptional.

Simon and Baz argue over the order of our names on the banner.

Shepard and I are ready to put our grand plan into motion when we arrive at the hotel. It’s nice. Simon and I agreed to splash out on this trip, treat ourselves. Tattoo Conventions are overwhelming, so having somewhere nice to come back to at the end of the day is important. 

Our hotel’s in the shadow of the castle. I thought Simon might like to be this close. I think I’m right, because he’s positively vibrating when we get there. 

“It’s right there. It’s right there! I mean, I knew it would be, but it’s _right there_.”

“Say _right there_ again, Snow. I dare you,” Baz grumbles. “You know there are castles that have been converted to hotels that you can stay in, right? You could be _right there_ in one.”

“Yes, but if you’re inside it you can’t look at it. And look at it! It’s _right there_!” he says, flinging his arms up. 

Simon is staring at the castle as if he wants to throw his arms around it and embrace it. And Baz? Baz is staring at Simon in much the same way.

“I’ll get us checked in, if you lads can handle the baggage situation,” I say, starting to back away towards the entrance to the hotel. Simon and Baz both grunt their agreement, and Shepard stays back to make sure neither starts to follow me inside. 

I march straight up to the counter and immediately ask, “Do you have any rooms available over the next three days?” 

“No, we’re fully booked up through the weekend,” the staff at the counter replies, looking a bit confused. I know I was rude and brusque, but this is no time for pleasantries. The plan is in action! The game is afoot! 

“Excellent, alright, I’m checking in with a reservation under the name Bunce.” 

Shepard, Simon, and Baz meet me in the lobby with all our bags. I already have the key cards in my hand. 

“Everything alright, Bunce?” Baz asks. I’m trying to portray an air of simmering outrage. 

“Not entirely. It’s not the end of the world, but there’s been a cock-up with the rooms.” 

“What happened?” Simon asks. 

“Well, they’ve lost the additional room we booked.”

“Lost it? Surely it must be somewhere in this building. Let’s go help them find it,” Baz says, brow furrowed, turning towards the check-in desk. 

“No, Baz. They said they have no record of the room being switched over. It’s mental! You heard me on the phone with them that day, right? I changed the booking with you two standing next to me!” 

I’ve nearly worked up tears. I deserve a BAFTA for this performance. 

Simon reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “Pen, don’t beat yourself up, we’ll just add another room now.” 

“I think what she means, Snow, is that there are no more rooms,” Baz says, grimly. 

“Not a single one,” I moan. “They’re entirely booked up for the weekend.”

“Shit, y’all. That sucks. What do we do?” Shepard chimes in. 

“Well, I can book myself into another hotel, there are plenty in this city.” 

“No, Baz! I hate that idea,” I say, giving a pathetic little sniffle. Get stuffed, Olivia Coleman. Piss off, Phoebe Waller-Bridge. This year the BAFTA is mine. 

“Why don’t we just share the room, Baz? It’s not that big a deal. We did share a room for a full year. I can sleep in a chair or the floor or something.”

Baz’s face looks twisted. I can’t tell if he’s fighting to say yes, fighting to say no, or just wants to fight. 

“Fine,” Baz sighs, throwing up his hands with exasperation. “I’ll do a one night trial before finding somewhere else to stay.” 

“Wow. I know I was a shitty roommate, but that was ten years ago, Baz. I’m a more tolerable human now.” 

“Only barely,” Baz snaps, holding out his hand. “Bunce?” 

I slap a key card into his hand.

“Room 61.” 

  
**Baz**

The room is nice. It’s lovely, actually. Made all the better by Simon standing at the open window, staring up at the castle, goggling. 

“It’s incredible, isn’t it, Baz?” 

“Yes, crumbling ruins of the empire are so few and far between in our great nation,” I snark, hanging up my clothing in the small wardrobe. I use all of the hangers, I’m sure Simon will just live out of his suitcase all weekend anyway. 

“I’m not going to let your shittiness distract me from how cool this is.” 

“Good for you, Snow. Now, right or left side?”

“Huh?” he says, turning away from the window to look at me with confusion plastered on his beautiful, freckled face. 

“Right or left side? On which side of the bed do you sleep?” 

“Oh, I’ll sleep on the floor or something, it’s no big deal.” 

“You’re not sleeping on the floor, Snow. First of all, that’s disgusting, do you know how dirty hotel room floors are? Second of all, I’m not a complete and total monster, I’m not going to make you sleep on the floor. The bed is massive, look…” I gesture at it. The bed _is_ massive. It’s making me think impure thoughts. “It’s practically the size of an ice rink. We can both fit on that bed without any risk of invading the other’s personal space.” 

“Whichever side, I’m not fussy. I usually starfish in the middle of my bed, but I don’t think that’ll work too well for the both of us.” 

_I_ usually starfish in the middle of the bed. I get lost for a moment, thinking about it. 

“I’d prefer not to wake up with you shoving your foot into my kidney. I’ll take the left, that way if you wake up early you can lay in bed and stare out the window dreamily sighing at the castle.” 

“You’re an absolute twat.” 

“Yes. I am. Now, when are we meeting the Bunces for dinner?”

I think, all things considered, I’m handling this extremely maturely. I haven’t planted myself in the centre of the bed and begged him to have me. Nor have I flung my pathetic, lust-filled body from the balcony to the street below. I imagine both would wreck me in equal measures. I’m being very mature. This is growth. 

Still, we haven’t actually arrived at the sleeping portion of the evening. 

We get changed and meet the Bunces downstairs in the lobby.

“You look lovely, Penny. Yellow is a good colour on you.”

“Thank you, Basilton. See Shepard? That’s how you compliment someone. Not _hot damn, girl, you look FINE!_ ’”

We all laugh.

“ _Hot damn, girl, you look fine_ is practically a love poem where I’m from,” Shepard shrugs and smiles.

The restaurant is nice. Penny found it. They do a large number of vegan choices, which is good because normally I’m stuck picking at whatever sad salad a normal restaurant can throw together. I thank her for the effort in finding the place.

Afterwards we all head out for a walk around the castle. Simon insisted. 

“You know you can actually go _in_ , right? You don’t have to just walk around the base of it.”

“Yeah, I know, Baz. I’ll probably go on our day off, but tonight I wanna walk around it.” 

“I’m punching any bagpipers I see,” I grouse. 

“I’ll hold them down for you,” Penny offers. 

“Aw, come on, you two, this is lovely!” Shepard says. 

“You two should hold hands, then,” Penny mocks. 

“I’m confident enough in both my sexuality and masculinity to hold hands with Simon. He looks like he’d be nice to hold hands with,” Shepard laughs. 

He’s right. Simon does look like he’d be nice to hold hands with. His hards are large, warm, and just calloused enough to remind you that you’re holding hands. Not that I’ve spent whole days of my life thinking about that or anything. Not that I’ve thought about his hands holding any part of me.

Halfway across Princes Street Gardens Penny gives a sad little groan and pulls Shepard to the side. 

“Something the matter, Bunce?”

“Not feeling so great, lads. Feel like I might need to take a rain-check on the walk,” 

“What’s wrong, Penny?” Simon says, moving to her side. “Something you ate?”

“Nope, just my monthly fight with my uterus,” she laughs, squinting one eye in pain. “Gonna get a cab back to the hotel, I think.” 

“Sorry, Pen,” Simon says, giving her a little side hug and kissing the top of her head.

“Don’t let us stop your walk, though. You two should continue on. It’s too nice a night not to.” 

“I think I will,” Simon replies, before turning to me, his ridiculous beaming smile making it seem like it’s the middle of the day, even though the sun’s gone down. “How about you, Baz? Sticking around or heading back with them?” 

“Might as well stay. Keep you from getting kidnapped by highlanders out on the prowl for orphans. I’m fairly confident that was the plot of a Robert Louis Stevenson book. That must mean it happens a lot.” 

Simon laughs. We say goodnight to Penny and Shepard and then continue our walk around the base of the castle, just the two of us.

“We can go up to it, if you like. It’s not open for visitors now, but we could stand outside. Stare up at the gates,” I offer. 

“That’s alright, Baz. I’m actually liking this, it lets me take it all in, ya know? It’s massive. Couldn’t appreciate it as much standing up close.” 

“Do you think you’ll use it as inspiration for some work?” 

“Probably. Might come back out early tomorrow morning when the light’s better and take some pictures.” 

We continue our walk in silence. The walls of the castle slowly rising out of sight as we round the far side, until all we can see is the rocky cliff on which it’s built. 

“Strange to think about how many people probably got smashed to death on these rocks,” Simon says as we walk. 

“I thought I was supposed to be the morose one. Crowley, Simon.” 

He laughs, and for a moment my breath catches in my lungs. He’s standing beneath a street lamp and his curls burn bronze, his skin incandescent. I can barely stand how beautiful he is. I’d like to freeze this moment in time, sit down on the pavement, and then fill an entire sketchbook with drawings of him. It’d never be enough. I’d never capture him.

As if he can sense the weakness in my heart, he speaks. 

“I’m glad you didn’t go to a different hotel. Don’t tell anyone, but I like spending time with you, Baz.” 

“Thank you, Simon. I find your presence tolerable.” 

“Wow, what a great compliment. Thanks so much,” he mocks, before huffing out a breath and shaking his head.“I don’t know how to read you, Baz. You don’t make any sense to me.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, you say the worst things, just awful, but then sometimes I think—sometimes you…” his voice trails off. 

“What is it, Simon?” Tell me. _Tell me_. 

He scrubs his hands over his face, we’re nearly back to the hotel now. 

“Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Holy shit, is that a vegan cupcake shop?!” 

It is, in fact, a vegan bakery, nearly across the street from our hotel. Simon insists on going in, despite the fact we had dessert at the restaurant earlier.

“We have to get cupcakes. It’s your moral duty as a vegan,” he says, nudging me in the arm as I protest in front of the glass display cases inside. 

“What can I get for you?” the guy at the counter asks. 

“One of everything,” Simon replies. 

“Simon, no.” 

“What? _Two_ of everything? Well, alright, Baz, but that seems a little excessive,” he laughs. 

In the end we get four cupcakes, I let Simon choose the flavours. He also insists on a marshmallow brownie and 2 slices of vegan cheesecake. I think he’d have genuinely bought one of everything if I’d let him. He refuses to let me pay. 

I don’t know what a date with Simon Snow would be like, but dinner, a walk, and a trip to a vegan bakery seem about right. And it’s making my heart ache. Everything about Simon does these days. 

“This is brilliant. Now you can’t move hotels. You have to stay because there’s a vegan bakery practically across the street. It’s meant to be,” Simon beams at me as we walk back towards our hotel, bags and boxes of food in hand. 

“I could always move hotels and have you bring me baked goods at the convention. Best of both worlds.”

“What makes you think I’d bring you baked goods if you asked?”

“Because you’re Simon Snow, that’s who you are.”

“Yeah. Guess that makes me a bit pathetic, doesn’t it?” 

“No, Simon. Not in the slightest.” 

  
**Simon**

  
It wasn’t until Baz was in the en suite getting ready for bed that I remembered about his tattoos. I’d completely forgotten in the busyness of the day. He’ll come out in his pyjamas and I’ll be able to get a look, even if it’s just a quick one, before he hides himself under the duvet. 

Then he emerges and all hope is lost. 

“ _Those_ are your pyjamas?”

“Yes?” He looks down at himself confused. 

He’s wearing a baggy black jumper, it looks soft, and long pyjama bottoms tucked into thick woollen socks. Maybe two pairs of socks? I can’t tell. He looks ridiculous. He looks cuddly, and soft, and warm. 

“You’re so covered up!” 

Baz glares at me and practically hisses, “Don’t you dare tell me you’re one of those people who sleep in only their pants?” 

“I mean, usually. If not less. I get overheated easily.” 

Baz’s face turns red. 

“You have to wear pyjamas tonight. I’m not sleeping next to you if you're half-naked, trying to starfish in the middle of the bed! That’s a compromise too far!”   
  
“Christ, alright, calm down,” I head to my suitcase and pull out some joggers and a t-shirt, before turning and waving them in Baz’s face. 

By the time I’m done changing, washing my face, and cleaning my teeth, Baz is already buried under the duvet. He’s shoved himself as far to his side of the bed as possible. 

I sigh, and climb in on the other side, pushing the duvet off myself and closer to him. 

“What are you doing?” he grumbles. His voice is muffled from beneath all the covers.

“You’re always cold, you’ll need it more than I do.”

“Don’t offer it to me and then take it back in the middle of the night. I’m not getting into a duvet war with you at one in the morning,” his voice sounds far away because of how he's burrowed in the covers. It makes me laugh. 

“It’s hard to take all your snarling and shittiness seriously when your pyjamas are that cuddly looking, and you're tucked so far down in the bed I can barely hear you!” 

I feel Baz shift beside me and I turn to look at him. He’s glaring, just two grey eyes and angry eyebrows poking out above the edge of the duvet. His soft black hair fuzzing out around him on the pillow.

I can’t help but laugh louder at the sight. 

He grumps and shifts away from me again. 

“Don't worry, Baz, I’m not going to fight you for the duvet.” 

I click off the light, and suddenly I’m in the dark, sharing a bed with Baz. 

I don’t know how I feel about it. Or I do, but I’m not sure how _he_ feels about it. 

That’s a lie. I know exactly how he feels about it. I’m his idiot coworker. A labradoodle of a man, he’s called me. And no matter how fragile our truce or friendship or whatever this is, he would never look twice at someone like me.

I turn my back to him and fall asleep. 

  
**Baz**

  
I can’t sleep. 

Simon is keeping me awake. It’s not that he snores, he doesn’t. Instead he makes a far worse sound, a sort of soft sigh every now and again that makes my toes curl involuntarily and causes me to grit and grind my teeth. 

Around two in the morning he wakes up, strips off his shirt, throws it across the room in the vague direction of his suitcase, and then lays back down. 

The room is pitch black and I can’t see a thing, yet the thought of him lying there beside me, half-naked, is making my stomach twist itself into knots.

I get some fitful sleep, at some point. I must, because my body keeps jerking back to consciousness, suddenly reminding me, oh so helpfully, that Simon is just there beside me.

_Psst, Basilton. Just wanted to mention, not sure if you noticed, t_ _he man you love is laying next to you sighing sweetly in his sleep. Also, he's shirtless. Just wanted to let you know. Alright, goodnight. Sleep tight._

In theory I could reach out and touch him. I could slide my arm up along his belly, wrap it around his chest and pull him to me. If he wakes up I could pawn it off as something I did in my sleep. Unconscious. Not my fault.

But that would be wrong. 

I feel all kinds of wrong. 

Around five thirty in the morning I just give up. I quietly get out of bed and drag a chair over to the window, sliding the curtains open just the tiniest amount, wide enough to let me stare out at the castle. 

Simon’s right. It is beautiful.

“Baz?” Simon’s voice calls through the darkness, thick and gravelly with sleep. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, Snow. Go back to sleep.” 

“ _You_ go back to sleep,” he grumbles. Even half-awake we fight with one another. 

He clicks on a light, and even though it’s a warm, soft bulb, my eyes still squint in protest. 

“You want me to make you some herbal tea or something?”

“No, Snow, I’m fine. Stop bothering me and go back to sleep for fuck’s sake.”

He sucks in a sharp little breath of air and I worry I’ve gone too far. 

“Shit, Baz, is that a bruise on your back? Did you hurt yourself yesterday during load in?” 

Fuck, my jumper must have ridden up. I quickly tug it down again.

“I’m fine. Go back to sleep, Snow.” 

“Let me go get you some ice or something. That looked bad, ” he gets out of bed at the same time I push myself forcefully out of the chair. 

“For fuck’s sake, it’s not a bruise, Simon! I’m fine! Stop with the tea, and the ice. Stop trying to fix everything. Stop trying to fix _me_. There are some things that not even Simon Snow can fix!” 

He looks at me, hurt. His blue eyes confused and searching. I've hurt him. Maybe this was always the way it had to be. Mutual destruction.

“I’m not trying to fix you, Baz, I’m trying to be your friend,” he moves closer to me. I wish he wouldn’t. He’s too close now, I want to push him away. 

“I don’t need you to be my friend! I don’t need you to fix me, or mum me, or anything. I can take care of myself.” 

“I know you can, Baz. I’m just—I just…I care about you.” 

“Don’t.” 

“Too late for that, mate.” 

“ _I don’t want to be your friend, Simon!_ ” I spit at him. It’s cruel, and awful, and the absolute truth. I _don’t_ want to be his friend. 

“Maybe I don’t want to be your friend either, Baz,” Simon replies, stepping into my personal space, his voice low. He reaches out and wraps a warm hand around my wrist. 

“Then what _do_ you want, Simon?” my voice nearly cracks with desire. 

“You,” he says. 

And then he kisses me. 

**Simon**

  
This is a good kiss. This is a very, _very_ good kiss.

Baz’s back is up against the wide glass window of our room and I’m pressing into him with everything I’ve got. He’s pressing back, his hands desperately grasping at my back and shoulders, his lips cold and insistent. I’ll warm them right up. Just give me time, Baz. I’ll warm every part of you.

Baz pulls back with a gasp. A thin line of saliva stretches between our mouths before snapping, and his hands fall from my back to slam against the cold glass window. He does want this, right? I haven’t overstepped? I haven’t crossed a line? 

We’re coworkers. I’ve crossed so many lines. Penny is going to kill me. 

“Are you alright? Is this ok?” all my words come rushing out. I need some reassurance right now that I haven’t pulled a classic Simon Snow and ruined everything.

“Kiss me. Keep kissing me,” Baz says, breathlessly. I almost stagger at the sound of his voice, it’s so raw. I should give us some space to think about this, to consider the consequences of my stupid actions. 

Instead, I wrap my arms around his waist and pull him to me at the same time he grabs me by the arms to pull me closer. Our bodies collide, and he tangles his hands in my hair. 

I realise I want to tangle my hands in _his_ hair. 

Suddenly there is a list the length of the Royal Mile of all the things I’d like to do with him. It starts with the sacred and ends with the profane. 

He licks into my mouth and I whine. 

“Penny is going to kill us, you know,” I say, pulling back to take a breath. 

“Stop talking about Bunce and put your mouth on me, Snow.” 

I lean in, letting my lips hover over his, barely touching. I hear his breath hitch. “You have to call me Simon now.” 

“Simon--” he sighs, and then my tongue is in his mouth, our hands are on one another, and I’m too far gone to care about anything other than what we're doing in this moment together.

  
**Baz**

  
At some point we moved from urgently crushing ourselves up against the cold glass window, to sitting in bed together, lazily kissing. 

It’s good. It’s better than good.

Simon kisses like he does everything else, full on. With more passion and enthusiasm than the world deserves, than _I_ deserve. 

“Thought you hated me,” Simon says, between kisses, our mouths barely touching.

“Well, _you_ hated _me_ ,” I reply, as if that’s an answer. 

I’m running my hand up and down his back. He’s still shirtless. Honestly, I haven’t had the strength to look down. I think I’d combust. 

Wasn’t finally kissing Simon supposed to make this feeling go away? The want, the need, the desire, they're all still there. It hasn’t died down. If anything it’s only burning brighter, hotter. I thought there would be some resolution, some respite to be found in his lips. Apparently, I am doomed to burn. 

Simon stops and pulls away, his eyes sad. “Is this just a grudge-sex thing for you?” 

Oh, Simon. 

“First of all, how can it be grudge-sex when we haven’t had sex? All we’ve done is kiss. And second, does this feel like grudge-sex?” I ask. He has his hands up underneath my jumper and is petting my stomach. My fingers are scratching gently through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. 

“No, I just…I need…” he sputters, then sighs. He leans his forehead against my shoulder and I feel his hot breath on my neck. It makes me shiver. “I like you, Baz. This isn’t just some hate-sex thing for me. I fancy you.” 

I feel all the muscles in my body simultaneously contract and release. A shudder runs through me like an electric current.

“Say that again, please?” 

He brings himself closer, whispers in my ear, cradling my face in one hand while he continues to pet my belly with the other. “I fancy you, Baz.” 

My capacity for self-control is boundless. Endless. Ask anyone. And yet, in that moment I lose all semblance of self-control. 

With a growl, I shove Simon back onto the bed, and climb on top of him. He lets out a little huff of air, like I’ve knocked the wind out of his lungs. I’m sure this is doing nothing to assuage his concern that this is just grudge-sex. My mouth and hands are on him. I can’t taste or feel enough of him. I’ll never be full. My want and need are endless, ceaseless. 

Eventually he has to pull away, head pressing back into the bed, gasping for breath. 

“Does that mean—are you—umm—” he looks dizzy. Overwhelmed. Delirious. I did that. 

“Use your words, Snow.” 

“Do you fancy me too?”

Fancy him? _Fancy_ him? 

“What do you want me to say to that, Simon?”

“The truth. I can handle it. Even if the truth totally sucks.”

He thinks I don’t like him. I slide my body along his, until we’re flush against one another. I nuzzle my nose to his ear. 

He sighs and I let my fingers trace his eyebrows, his nose, his jaw, before settling myself to trace the curve of his lips. 

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long while.” 

“Bollocks,” he says, as I nuzzle into his neck and continue to pet at his lips, cheeks, and jaw. I trace the constellations mapped out on his face and neck by his freckles and moles. “Since when?”

“Since…a long while.”

“Since your birthday?” he asks as he kisses my forehead. I hum with pleasure. 

“Before that.”

“Since Christmas?” he slides his hands up the back of my jumper. I shiver at his touch.

“Before that.” 

“…Baz, how long?” 

I could try to keep my cards to myself. I could continue to give vague half truths and let things go poetically unspoken, but Simon is a blunt and honest man. He deserves a blunt and honest truth. 

“I think it was about the fifth week of being roommates with you.” 

He puts a hand on either one of my shoulders and pushes me up and away from him, holding me there. I like it. File this information away for later, Basilton.

“ _Since Art College?!_ ” he practically shouts. “ _ART COLLEGE?!_ ”

“Sshhhh, you’ll wake half the hotel,” I hush him, placing my hand over his mouth. He kisses against my palm. I like it. I’ll file that away for later as well. 

I wipe my hand on the sheets and answer him, “Yes, you berk.” 

Simon stares at me, hard, his blue eyes dancing over my face. 

“So that internalised homophobia you accused me of…”

“Was, in fact, _my_ internalised homophobia? Yes, very astute of you, Simon.”

He wriggles beneath me, craning his ridiculous neck to look around on the nightstand. 

“What are you looking for, the clock? Want to make a note of the exact time you realised how pathetic I am?” 

“Loving someone doesn’t make you pathetic. It makes you strong.” 

“Who said anything about love?” 

“I think you just did, mate, when you said you’ve been pining after me for ten years.” 

I push up from the bed and glare down at him. 

“I haven’t been pining for ten years! I’ve had several satisfying relationships during that time, thank you very much, and—”

Simon grabs me by my shoulders, locks his legs around mine and flips us, so he’s on top of me. He raises himself up to all fours and hovers there, staring down into my eyes. I can barely stand to look at him. 

“It’s alright to want something, Baz. And its alright to say it. I think I’ve wanted you for longer than I realised.” 

“Bollocks,” I repeat his words from earlier. He laughs and searches around on the nightstand for his phone. 

“What is it?”

“Checking the time.”

“Why?”

“There’s a growing list in my head of things I’d like to do with you. I’m checking to see whether I get to do one of the short things or long things from the list.” 

I groan. It’s a disgusting noise. I want to be disgusting with him. 

“And? What’s the verdict?”

“Shit, we have half an hour until we’re supposed to meet Penny and Shepard.” 

“They’re patient, they can wait a little bit…” I say, running my hands along his lower back. 

“No. No, I have to meet them on time. You know that about me.” 

I do. I know that about him, and I love him for it. 

“Just kiss me, then, Simon,” he’s still out of reach, still on all fours above me. 

“No,” he smiles down. “This time _you_ kiss _me_.”

I do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Harrowing. 
> 
> Fun story that doesn't really matter? I chose this hotel for the gang a few chapters back because I thought Simon would want to be close to a castle, and then when doing some light googling while writing this chapter I noticed there is a vegan bakery literally across the street from the hotel IRL. Simon's reaction was my reaction. It's my moral duty to make them go in.


	14. The Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A room full of chairs, nobody's playing at anything, and an extremely beautiful garden. Nothing with Baz is ever just aesthetics, is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you get to That Tattoo Part in this chapter, if you'd like to see the images I used for reference in my brain, they are linked in the notes at the end. If you'd prefer to joyfully frolic in your own imagination based on my descriptions, then please have fun frolicking!
> 
> cw: mention of tattooing/tattoos as a form of grief/trauma processing

**Penny**  
Something is seriously wrong with Simon and Baz. First, Baz looks like he barely slept. It’d be fine if they both looked like that, then we’d have some visual confirmation that they’d _both_ spent the night doing something other than sleeping, but only one of them? Problematic. 

“You both have your lanyards? Everything you need for the day?” I ask. 

“Of course we do, Bunce. We’re both fully competent adu—” 

“Shit, forgot my lanyard. Be right back…” Simon says, dropping his bag on the ground and running back to the room. 

“He forgot the bloody keycard, too,” Baz says, sighing and rolling his eyes. “I should wait here until he notices, but I’m feeling generous this morning. Be right back, Bunces.”

He sets his bag down as well and saunters off after Simon. 

“He does know I didn’t take your name when we got married, right?” Shepard asks. 

“Baz is an intelligent man. He knows what’s up.”

It takes them a while to get back, Simon must’ve seriously misplaced that lanyard. He looks embarrassed, red faced when they return. Maybe Baz gave him a bollocking. 

The convention is going well so far. We can only work on tattoos one at a time in the booth, so we have a sort of one on, two off rota. Shep is around to keep us company, run errands, and generally be entertaining. He’s so thoroughly charming, in a way that even Baz and Simon can’t manage. 

Baz has the kind of haughty charm that makes people feel blessed to have been deigned with his attention, no matter how brief the interaction. Simon has the sort of earnest charm where he opens himself up to you so fully and completely that you can’t help but adore him. Shepard though…Shepard has the kind of charm where you can tell he wants to _know_ you, deep down, no matter who you are. He listens without judgement, asks questions without motive, and genuinely wants to know what makes people tick. People respond to him. Weirdos fucking love him. 

Which is how he’s engaged in a deep and meaningful conversation with someone who works as a fire performer. 

“That’s fascinating, Margaret. So, I think what y’all call paraffin we call kerosene in the states…” 

Her jewelry jangles as they speak. 

“Oh, fucking hell,” Simon says, tossing his phone down on the chair in frustration. 

“What’s wrong?” Baz looks up from where he’s selling someone one of those damn hoodies Shepard ordered that we still have far too many of. 

“Client cancelled on me. The client I was supposed to be seeing _now_. They _just_ emailed.”

“Rude,” I offer, coming over to stand by him. 

“I should have known better. They were sketchy in our emails and tried to get out of paying the deposit.” 

“You _did_ make them pay the deposit though, didn’t you?” Baz asks, eyebrow raised. He’s ruthless about the rules. 

“Of course, I’m not a numpty!” 

Baz smiles at him. “Of course not. Only half-numpty.” 

“Well, I guess I have a couple hours off,” Simon sighs, scrabbling his hands through his hair.

“As do I. Bunce, when's your next client?” 

“An hour from now. Although I suppose I could text them. If they’re already here I could get them in early.” 

Simon yawns and stretches his arms above his head. His jumper rides up, revealing his stomach. I catch Baz grimace and look away. 

“Why don’t you two go exploring?” I offer. Suddenly full of inspiration. “I’ll see if I can get my client in early, and Shepard can stay here to keep me company, while simultaneously collecting data on all the weirdos of the world.”

Simon and Baz share a long, stony faced look. Did they have a fight or something, a bigger fight than usual? What’s going on with these two? Get back on track, boys. 

“Whatever,” Simon says, with a shrug. 

“Fine,” Baz says. 

When they walk off onto the crowded convention floor there is far too much distance between them.

Come on, you two. Figure it out.

  
**Baz**  
Simon and I make slow progress through the venue. It seems either he or I know half the artists here. He waves and smiles as we go, but never stops to get pulled into a conversation. I’m thankful for that. I don’t think I could bear to stop and talk to someone right now. I don’t know what we’re doing, but we’re going somewhere, and Simon seems determined. We reach the end of an aisle and Simon steps to the side, out of the flow of traffic, before resting his hand on a door that seems to lead to the back of the venue. 

“Hmm,” he says, softly, so only I can hear. “What’s down here?” 

He wags his eyebrows at me and disappears behind the door. 

I follow.

He’s wandering down the hall, testing doors and looking into rooms. 

“What are you looking for, Simon?”

“Trust me.” 

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be back here.”

“Fussy little rule follower,” he mumbles, but there’s a smile on his face. “Ah! Here!” he says, quietly triumphant. He opens an innocuous looking door and gestures for me to enter.

He’s confidently ushered me into a dark room entirely filled with chairs.

“Simon, what are—” before I can finish my sentence he has me pinned against the door, his mouth on mine, his hands roving up under my jumper.

Oh. He’s much smarter than me in so many ways. 

He’s stopped kissing my mouth and is making his way down my neck, hands squeezing my waist and hips. 

“How’d you know this room was here, Simon?” I ask, between gasps.

He pulls back, and drags his fingers along my waistband. It’s awful. It’s wonderful.

“There’s always a room full of chairs in a place like this. And I figure, a room full of chairs is a good choice, right? That way we can sit down and have a civilised conversation, if that’s what you’d like. And if not, I can continue snogging you up against the wall.” 

I push away from Simon and grab a chair, dragging it over to a corner where we won’t immediately be noticed by someone walking past. 

“We’re creative. Why not do a bit of both?” I say, nodding to the chair. Simon sits, looking confused. The confusion lasts the length of time it takes him to sit and me to straddle his lap. 

He groans as I ease down and let my weight press him into the chair. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard. 

“It’s been difficult keeping my hands off you today, Baz.” 

“So don’t keep your hands off me,” I grab him by the wrists and shove his hands up underneath my jumper. Apparently having him pet my stomach is my new favourite pastime.

“We can go back out there...” he says, as he kisses up my neck. My fingers are irretrievably tangled in his curls and I may or may not be making some wildly unrefined noises. “...And explore the convention, if that’s what you want.”

“Does it feel like that's what I want?” I say, pulling a bit on his curls.

Simon makes a choked noise at the back of his throat and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me closer

“Baz, I want you so badly,” he whispers into my mouth. Now it’s my turn to make the choked noise at the back of _my_ throat. 

“You don’t know want, Simon,” he doesn’t. His desire is a match-head and mine a forest fire. He’ll never know want the way I do. The way I’ve wanted him. 

We kiss and move against one another, until I lose all sense of time. Simon will know. He’ll keep us on track. 

We have to uncouple several times in order to calm ourselves down. 

“I really don’t want our first time to be in a room full of chairs while a thousand people mill around outside,” I say during one of our breaks, purposefully standing beyond his reach.

“Nope, we’ll save that for the _second_ time,” he laughs, turning his back on me. I can tell he’s turned around so he can readjust himself, and my mouth waters at the thought. I have to wipe saliva from the corner of my lips, and stop myself from begging to lick the hand that was just down his trousers. 

Then he crosses the space between us in two strides, and I’m done for.

Nearly half an hour later I’m doing my best to unfuck my hair before we return back to the convention floor, but I’m pretty sure it’s a lost cause. 

“Looks good like that, you should leave it.”

“There’s no way in hell my hair looks good like this.”

“Sure it does, you look all messed up. I like knowing I’m the one that messed you up.” 

“Hold my phone while I try to sort myself,” I say, flipping the camera into selfie mode and attempting to make myself look presentable. Then I take my phone back from Simon and sort out his curls for him. They’re wrecked. _He’s_ wrecked. His lips are red and raw, and he can’t stop smiling like an imbecile. 

My fingers catch on a tangle in his hair and I end up pulling harder than intended. The noise Simon makes shoots straight between my legs and and then it takes us another fifteen minutes to calm ourselves down enough to leave the room. I have to redo my hair twice more.

“Let’s remember this room for tomorrow,” Simon laughs, quietly closing the door behind us. I like that he wants there to be a tomorrow.

As we’re walking back to the convention floor, I feel Simon’s pinky reach out and trace along mine. 

“Are we going to hold hands now and play happy boyfriends, Simon?” 

“Don’t you want to?” 

I bite my tongue to stop my immediate response. I can tell I’ll have to unlearn years of baked in default antagonism. 

Simon sighs, and at first I think he’s giving up. “Actually, Baz, I don’t want to _play_ at anything. Do you?” 

I catch his hand in mine, interlocking our fingers. I can be brave too, Simon. I can be bold.

“No. I don’t want to play at anything either.” 

The tattoo world, however, is not known for it’s wealth of queer artists, and I rethink our hand holding as soon as the sounds of the crowd on the convention floor start to build ahead of us. 

“Simon, we don’t have to hold hands if you don’t want to. The toxic masculinity and heteronormativity in this place is practically tangible. We don’t have to take the risk of being hassled.” 

“Shut up and hold my hand,” he says beaming at me. 

“What about Penny and Shepard?”

Why do I keep trying to deter him from showing me affection? Damn my brain. Damn my internalised homophobia. Damn everything about me except the hand that’s still holding onto Simon’s. 

He laughs nervously. “Alright, good point. Maybe it isn’t the best idea to tell Penny her enemy-coworkers who have been on a truce have suddenly decided to be boyfriends, while in the midst of a very big, important convention.” 

"You decide the timing, Simon. She was your friend first."

“Later. Just not...right now, you know? You’re alright with that?”  
  
“It’s not a problem for me, Snow. I’ve spent quite a long time perfecting the art of seeming like I don’t care about you,” I say squeezing his hand. “I’m an excellent actor.”

“Good, that’ll be helpful. Because I’m absolute shit,” Simon says, laughing nervously. 

  
**Simon**  
We stop by a little tea cart and pick up drinks for Penny and Shepard before heading back to the booth. Penny’s finished up with her client and I can hear her rattling through aftercare instructions. 

“Hey, guys!” Shepard calls out as we return. “You come bearing gifts!” 

“Indeed,” Baz says, depositing a tea in front of both he and Penny. “And the promise of a break. You two go get something to eat, get away from here for a bit. We’ll man the booth for a while. I have the next appointment anyway.”

Penny stares at us for a moment, head cocked to the side. I can feel myself starting to blush, so I dive under the table and rummage through the box of merch we’ve brought. 

“How many of these hoodies do you think we can sell while they’re gone, Baz?” 

“Oh, easily twice as many as they sold while we were gone.” 

Penny narrows her eyes at us. “Alright. Deal. Losers buy dinner.” 

“Sounds fair.” 

“And no selling them off for a fiver each just to move product. Sell them for the proper price!” she says, grabbing her bag. 

“Damn, I suppose we’ll have to rely on our charm, instead,” Baz laughs, easing himself back into a chair and spreading his ridiculous long legs out in front of him. I bite my lip and get a little caught up in thinking about how those long legs were just wrapped around me. 

Baz’s client arrives shortly after, and I settle myself in a chair to watch him work. 

It’s not like I haven’t watched him work before, I’m suddenly realising I watch him a lot. Like a _lot_. But now I have permission to watch him freely, openly. I fold my arms across my chest, rest my feet on a cardboard box full of merch, and watch as he preps his materials and gets his client ready. The piece is only about the size of my palm, and Baz is a fast worker. It’ll probably take him less than an hour to complete, even with all his fiddly line work and detail. And that includes clean up at the end.

It’s an hour where I can just watch him. 

He pulls his hair up into a bun before he gets started, scraped high at the back of his head. There are little hairs at the nape of his neck that fall loose, and they get stuck in the faint sheen of sweat leftover from what we were doing earlier. I’d like to kiss it away. 

He’s totally focused on his work now. He gets like this, we all do. You could call it being in the zone, or a fugue state, or tunnel vision, or whatever. Everything else slides to the side: other people, the noise of the convention, everything. It’s just you and your work in that moment. 

I watch his hands. Even hidden in black nitrile gloves I can still make out his knuckles, the soft bend and curve of his thumb. His fingers are agile, the way they wrap around the grip of his machine, the way his pinky flicks out to scoop vaseline from where he’s left a glob on his opposite glove, before rubbing it over the client’s work as he goes. 

Suddenly everything he’s doing seems sexual. The gloves, the vaseline, the way he’s biting his lip as he passes over some delicate line work. I squirm a bit in my seat. 

“Alright over there, Snow?” he asks, not looking up from his client’s leg where he’s working. 

“Alright, _Pitch_ ,” I reply. He looks up and raises an eyebrow.

“Oh sorry, are we not going by last names?”

“You tell me. I'll do anything you like.” 

The way he says it makes me squirm a little more in my chair. Bastard.

Luckily someone comes along just then who wants to talk about booking. Maybe I can sell them one of these hoodies, too. 

It’s nonstop after that, potential customer after potential customer want to know about our availability, prices, and flip through our portfolios. 

It takes a long while for our booth to finally calm down again. Baz is finished with his client and cleaning up by then.

“Hey, Baz?”

“Yes, Snow?”

“I’ve just been thinking…”

“About how you’re supposed to be selling those hoodies so we don’t lose a bet?”

“Shit, I forgot about that. No. I’ve been thinking…that I’d really like to see your tattoos.” 

“I know you would, Simon, you’ve been bothering me about them for several months now.”

“No. Baz. _I would like to see your tattoos_. Tonight, maybe? If you’re interested?”

Baz’s nostrils flare. I raise my eyebrows at him.

Seeing his tattoos would mean, in his words, _a state of undress_. Clothes off. Starkers.

I hope he sees where I’m going with this. I think he does from the way his jaw is grinding right now.

“You alright there, Baz?”

“Yes. Fine. Yes. Um, I would like that, Simon. For you to…see…my tattoos.” 

“Well, alright then. Tonight.”

“Tonight.” 

**Penny**

What the hell is going on with Simon and Baz? They’ve barely spoken or looked at one another. In all fairness, the booth has been mad busy, there's a constant flow of clients in and out, individuals looking to sign up for our waiting lists, and some folks who just want to come by and chat. It’s been non-stop. 

I expected a little more friendly sniping between the two of them. You can hardly shut them up most days. Today they just seem tense. Nervous.

Perhaps my grand plan has backfired. Shit. Well done, Bunce.

We’ve left the convention for the night, and had dinner as planned. They barely spoke through the whole meal. (They paid.)

I have to get this back on track. I can fix this. I have contingency plans. I have contingency plans for my contingency plans, a flexible mental flow chart of how to get these two where they need to go.

“We should go out after this! We got invites to a couple industry parties, could be fun?” I ask as we leave the restaurant. 

“Not tonight, Bunce. Thank you though. I'm quite exhausted and I'd like to go back to the hotel."

"Yeah, Pen. It's not for me either. You know me and parties. I think I'm going to take some pictures of the castle then head back to the hotel."

“Nooo,” I try not to sound too whiney, but I think I fail. “Please? Please let’s go do something fun. All of us. Together!” 

I try to give them my best “adventure!” smile. 

“Pen, I love you, but I just can’t.” 

“I didn’t sleep well last night, Bunce, and I can’t take another night of it.”

“But Baz—” 

“Goodnight, Bunces. Have fun at your party,” Baz heads off down the street. 

Simon smiles awkwardly at me and Shepard. “Sorry to let you down, Pen.”

“Simon is everything alright? Are you—”

“Everything’s fine, Pen. Just tired.”

Simon waves over his shoulder.

I watch them walk off into the night, too far apart from one another yet again.

“Well, I think I’ve royally fucked it all up. But I can fix it! I wonder if—” 

Shepard wraps his arm around my shoulder and kisses the top of my head.

“Just let them be, Penny. They’ll figure it out.” 

“But what if they don’t?”

“Then they don’t.”

I sigh. I’ll pause the plotting for tonight. 

“Fine.” 

“We’re still going to the parties, though, right? One of the guys who invited us swears he has photos of the Loch Ness monster and you know I’m so into that.” 

**Baz**  
By the time we get back to the room we’re both a bit breathless. Partially because, as soon as we were out of sight of the Bunces, we practically ran all the way back. And partially because we stopped every block or so to kiss each other in every dark corner and close we could find. 

I’m struggling to get the room's door open. My hands no longer work. My mind and body fuzz with white noise. Simon reaches past, thumps the handle, and pushes me through. 

For a moment after the door closes all we can do is breathe in one another's personal space. We’re not even touching, just looking and breathing. 

Crowley, are we teenagers or something? 

“Simon—” saying his name breaks the spell. He launches himself at me and we fumble towards the bed. 

“Want you—” he says, hands catching on the front of my jeans, the tips of his fingers tucking themselves down inside the waistband of my pants. My knees buckle. Crowley, his hands are warm.

“I want you more than you could possibly fathom,” I breathe into his mouth between messy, frantic kisses. 

“Why is everything a competition with you?” 

“Not everything. I don’t intend to finish first tonight.” 

He groans at my words and I attempt to lick the sound out of his mouth. 

“Can I? May I?” he says, hands on the hem of my jumper. 

“Please,” it comes out like a whine. I pull back a bit, so he has room. 

He digs his fingers into my jumper and the shirt beneath, tugging them forcefully over my head. I raise my arms to make it easier. Then he lets out a tiny little “oh.” 

Oh. My tattoos. Right. 

**Simon**  
I’ve made a fair number of guesses on what kind of tattoos Baz might have. Something dark, brooding, and unusual, surely. Skulls? Ancient runes and strange occult symbols, maybe? I never once thought it would be _flowers_. 

He has what seem to be a dozens of realistic plants and flowers tattooed on his body, in clusters and bunches, in full, glorious, vivid colour. Not tattooed, tattooed doesn't seem to be the right word for this. They seem to be growing there, living on his skin. And there is _so much_ of his beautiful coppery skin to see between his tattoos, so much that hasn’t been covered, but the parts that have are blossoming and blooming before my eyes. They're so realistic I feel like I should bury my nose in their centres and huff deep.

Huge, full stalks bend and sag with blossoms. Leaves and stems twist. Bursting over his right shoulder and pectoral there is a fat bunch of orange and pink blossoms, with deep green stems and delicate buds looking set to burst. The head of a fern unfurls below his collar bone. More ferns crawl up along his ribcage. 

There are big, fat bumblebees that zigzag across his skin, as if caught mid-flight, paused in time as they suck up nectar from each flower. I think the bees are onto something. I’d like to press a kiss into the centre of every flower. I’d like to lick into them and discover if there is sweetness inside.

I trace my fingers along the flowers blossoming on his shoulder, hesitantly. I just know that if I press too hard their petals will come tumbling off into my hand.

I wish I could say something, anything, but I can only swallow uselessly and barely touch his skin.

“Simon?” he says, quietly.

I nod. 

“Simon, say something, please?” he sounds so hesitant, so shy.

“You’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful, Baz.” 

He sighs and wraps his arms around me, pulling me close, his fingers playing at the nape of my neck. I’m only slightly disappointed I can no longer see his body, slightly because, of course, I can now _feel_ his body. And that’s just as good. If not better. 

“I want to see more,” I whisper into his hair. He shivers, then pulls back. He puts his hands on the waistband of his trousers.

“I want to show you more.” 

\--

Later, after we’ve both cried out one another's names into the darkness, and into one another's flesh; after I’ve started to memorise the curve of Baz's hipbones under my lips, and learned the exact point between his kneecap and his inner thigh that will start his legs trembling uncontrollably, after all that, we lay together in bed, and he tells me all about his tattoos. 

They're collected in meaningful little bunches. Posies, he calls them. I’ve only ever heard that word in the nursery rhyme. He says it just means little bundles of flowers, herbs, and foliage. They're exquisite. So beautiful. But nothing is ever just aesthetics with Baz, is it? There are always wells of meaning, so of course his tattoos would all have some deep significance. 

“Those are cosmos,” he says, as I trace my fingers along delicate pale purple blossoms with fat yellow centers, and shaking tendrils of green growing along his inner arm. “From the Greek kosmos, they represent order and harmony. They’re in a cluster with sage for wisdom.”

I trace up to his chest, to the orange and pink flowers and greenery that spill over his shoulder and down. 

“Those are dahlias. They represent dignity and confidence, with bay laurel, for success.” 

“Very you,” I say, kissing them. In fact, that’s a much better idea than tracing with my fingers. I shift my body so I have better access, and start kissing along his tattoos. He explains as I go.

I pause at his upper arm. 

“I know this one, that’s a daisy, right?” 

“Feverfew,” he says softly, running his fingers lazily through my hair as I continue kissing. “For protection. People used to think it had magical qualities. And it’s in a posy with rue, for clarity of vision.” 

I kiss down his forearm.

He has rosemary for remembrance, and thyme for courage, both grouped with purple and pink primrose and crocus for youth. It makes me sad to hear him describe them. It makes me think of his mother, and his childhood.

I kiss my way to his hip. Blossoming there are fat cabbage roses, for love and desire. Thick, layered blossoms give way to thinner, spindly rosebuds. They spread upwards, tight and delicious looking, growing with the ferns that unfurl on his ribs.

I hover my fingers above the rosebuds there. They look so tightly packed that they're practically threatening to bloom along his hip and side. 

“I worry if I touch these they might actually burst open."

“I worry if you touch them _I_ might burst open,” Baz laughs quietly. 

Which means I have to touch them. I trace the stems and thorns and buds along his hipbone and side. I press into his warming flesh and feel it give beneath my fingertips. Baz sighs prettily and sinks further into the bed. 

“So far, nothing has burst.”

“Other than my heart.” 

I climb up his body and drape myself over him. He groans as my weight settles. It’s a very good sound. I’d like to make him make it again. I'd like to make him make all sorts of sounds.

“So last night, the bruise I thought I saw...”

“Was most likely echinacea and speedwell.”

“What do those represent?”

“Capability and loyalty.”

“Why flowers?” I ask into his neck. He’s so soft here, I’d like to take up residence in the crook of his neck and never leave. 

“Different seeds grow in different ways. Most seeds can be put in the ground and grow, but some need to freeze over winter, or have their seedpods scratched and scarred.” 

“Interesting plant facts, but what’s that to do with your tattoos?”

“Because there are some seeds, those from pyrophitic plants, that can only grow after a fire. They need to be burnt in order to germinate and bloom. Eucalyptus, lodgepole pine, and banksia,” he touches a cluster of foliage and flowers in the centre of his chest. “They all have to burn.”

I snake my arms between his back and the bed and then shift us, so we’re laying face to face. Then I pull the duvet up over our heads. I feel the need to cocoon him here with me. To block out the outside world. They don’t get to see or hear. They don’t get to know. Our voices are muffled, soft. We can be soft here with one another.

“It felt...meaningful, when I learned about them. So I got them tattooed over my heart.” 

He smiles, it’s a sad sort of smile. I push some of his long black hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear. 

“And then it was a slippery slope, you know how it is. One tattoo leads to another. I learned about the meanings of flowers and tried to group them together into little significant bunches. It was…cathartic. Something that started with grief has resulted in beauty.”

“So much beauty,” I kiss along his collar bone. “Is that how you decided to become a tattoo artist?” 

“Yes, partially. I like that I can help people process their grief and trauma through tattoos. It's powerful to help people reclaim their bodies and their sense of self. There’s some overlap with etching, too....plus, I needed the money.” 

“Not a lot of money to be made in etching?”

He laughs. 

“No. Not a lot of money to be made in etching.” 

"Why don't you ever show them?"

He sighs and closes his eyes.

"There are some parts of me that feel too soft to share with the world."

"Thank you for letting me see."

He kisses me, almost painfully slowly.

Then I extract myself from his long limbs and start to kiss down his chest and stomach. I continue lower.

“Tell me about the ones on your legs? I think I’ll be down here a while.” 

He groans and tangles his hands in my hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like some references for how I envision Baz's tattoos, here are the links that make my brain buzz and hum and freak out. Warning, these are links to tattoos/tattoo artist portolios, so there are assorted body parts in the pictures (bare arms, backs, etc)  
> [tonally, this.](https://mymodernmet.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/archive/3KfNolXB6AMfA4dIfhFO_alicecarrier13.jpg)  
> [little meaningful bunches](https://www.amazingtattooideas.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/botanical-leg-tattoo.jpg)  
> [these, but brighter in colour](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/36/7e/10/367e10f5a8697f5893e3ba2b1ec7fede.jpg)
> 
> And overall these are the artist portfolios that I looked at for inspiration.  
> <https://www.wonderlandpdx.com/alice-kendall> (and pretty much all the incredible artists at Wonderland PDX)  
> <http://www.butterfatstudios.com/portfolio/>
> 
> And here is one of the sites I used to research flowers and their meanings, in case you wanted to see what the specific flowers referenced in Baz's tattoos look like : <https://www.atozflowers.com/>


	15. Storming the Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tattoos that come off in the bath, a visit to the castle, and so much art. Wrecking one another is a good thing, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic got away from me so bad. I thought I'd write a fun little couple-of-chapters tattoo au and then it turned into this monstrosity. Thank you so very much for being here for it and for all your wonderful, kind, funny comments. They warm my cold, dead, Baz Pitch-like heart.

**Baz**  
The next day at the convention is somehow more agonizing than the day before. 

Was this always going to be my fate? Doomed to be perpetually tortured by Simon Snow?

We manage to sneak off to the room of chairs once more, on Penny’s insistence. Not that she insists on us sneaking off to do unspeakable things in a storage room, she still doesn’t know we’re together, but she encourages a break to go exploring again. I will _happily_ go exploring, but she doesn’t need to know who or what I’ll be exploring.

Whenever I think I can get away with it throughout the day, I watch Simon. And I know he does the same to me. I can feel his blue eyes boring holes into me as I go about my work. 

It’s towards the end of the day now, only Simon and Penny have a client each to go, then we’re through. Simon’s getting himself set up. He looks knackered. I _feel_ knackered. Perhaps a large professional convention was not the best time for us to fling ourselves mouth-first into a relationship. 

Simon’s last client arrives, a woman about our age. She has her child in tow, he looks to be about 7 or 8, and she looks absolutely, totally mortified. 

“Hello, Simon?” she says, looking like she’s apologising for her existence. He reaches out to shake her hand, smiling. 

“I’m so so sorry, but I’ve had to bring my son along. The sitter cancelled last minute, and I couldn’t find anyone who could watch him, and I didn’t want to lose my deposit, and the convention said it was alright to bring him in as it’s the end of the day…” she stumbles over her words. 

“Take a deep breath,” Simon smiles at her. “It’s alright, it’s fine. We can make it work, if you still want to make it work.” 

“I’ll park him in a chair with an iPad and he can play games. He won’t be a bother!” 

“He won’t be a bother even if he’s _not_ parked in a chair playing games. Hello little man, what’s your name?” Simon and the kid smile at each other. The kid’s missing their front teeth, and they’re as freckled as Simon. 

“I’m Oliver.” 

Simon reaches out and shakes hands with the kid. “Nice to meet you, Oliver. I’m going to tattoo your mum today, you cool with that?” 

“Very cool. I like mummy’s tattoos!”

I give up the chair I’ve been sitting in for the kid. He plunks himself down and immediately starts swinging his legs. 

Simon and the kid’s mom set up some ground rules, like the kid can’t jostle Simon or come over and give his mum a shake whenever he wants her attention. The kid nods through their discussion. The mum hands over an iPad and a pair of headphones for the kid. He takes them slowly. 

“Mummy, can’t I watch you instead?” 

“Sure, duck, but if you get bored you’ve got to rot your brain on the device for a bit,” his mom laughs.

The kid watches in awe as Simon gets started on the tattoo.

After a while he looks up at me

“You do tattoos?” 

“I do,” I reply.

“What kind of tattoos?” 

“Cool ones.” 

“Oh yeah?”

I get out my portfolio and show him. 

“Whoa…those are cool,” he says. He’s running his hands over some of the sword tarot tattoos from flash day. 

“You like swords?” Is this kid a mini Simon?

“Yeah! Cuz I'm going to be a knight and fight dragons when I grow up.” 

“That’s a noble pursuit.” 

“Huh?” the kid screws up their face, confused. 

“I said that’s a great idea.” 

“I want a tattoo like that.” 

“Alright. Well. I have some availability in,” I check an invisible watch on my wrist. “One minute. Would you like a sword tattoo, Oliver?” 

“YEAH!”

  
 **Simon**  
Baz gets paid 250 pound an hour to tattoo people, he’s got a waiting list for his work that’s the size of this convention, and right now he’s squatting on the floor in front of a kid, sharpie in hand, giving them an epic marker tattoo up their forearm. 

He asked his mum first, of course. She nearly choked on her tongue when Baz offered. He is kind of a big deal, I guess. 

It’s a sword, in the same style that he tattooed for flash day, with star-bursts behind it and swirls of clouds around the outside. It looks magical. Kind of looks like he’s cribbed some of my style with the star-bursts. I should be offended by that, right? I’m not. 

Baz is taking it seriously, too. He’s pausing and examining his work before continuing with a new line. He gently twists the kids arm from side to side to make sure it looks good. 

He’s talking with the kid, not down to him, but _with_ him. Asking him about school and his mates and what he likes to do for fun. They talk about knights and dragons and Arthurian legends, and with every sentence I feel myself becoming absolutely, totally, and completely fucked. My heart is a balloon that will burst, and Baz keeps blowing more air into it. 

He finishes and the kid is in awe. I am too, to be honest.

The two talk for a while, then the kid shows Baz how to play a game on his device and the two of them take turns. Baz is clearly getting his arse handed to him, and the kid is howling with laughter. It's the sweetest thing I've ever seen.

Penny and Shep come back from their wander around that time and look around, clearly confused by the play-date taking place at our booth.

I shrug and finish my last pass of colour.

“There we go. All finished. Mind if we get a picture of the two of you together?” 

“YEAH!” the kid is beaming. I don’t blame him. Does he realise he has a couple hundred quid worth of art on his arm?

They stand side by side, beaming, and I take a couple pictures of the two of them together. Then we get some shots of just Oliver’s tattoo on it’s own.

Oliver's mum slips him a few bills to tip Baz, but Baz refuses. 

“It was an honour to get to tattoo a future knight. Thanks for letting me do it.” 

He smiles and trots off with his mum. 

I slide over next to Baz, trying to whisper so Penny and Shepard don’t hear. “Well _that_ was adorable.” 

“Yeah, cute kid.”

“No, I meant _you_. How’d you get so good with little’uns?” 

“Younger siblings.”

“That kid is going to be horrified when he gets older and realises he washed off a £300 tattoo in the bath.”

We laugh, and start packing up our supplies while Penny gets ready for her last client. 

**Baz**  
It’s over! Thank Crowley, the convention is finally over! Not that I haven't enjoyed it. I've been able to work on a few very satisfying projects while we've been here. (Which is _not_ a euphemism.)

We pack up the remainder of our things and head back to the hotel. Simon gives away the last two hoodies on our way out the door and Penny doesn't even complain. Thank fuck those are finally gone. Shepard is never allowed to do our merch orders ever again.

“Dinner together, yes?” Penny asks as we drag our bags into the hotel. 

“I don’t know, Bunce-”

“Oh, please! You didn’t come out with us last night and I feel like we’re hardly getting to spend any time together.” 

“We spent the entire day together,” I practically snarl. I feel a bit feral.

Simon is standing beside Penny and he looks at me with a sad little shrug. 

“Alright. Fine. But this time I pick the restaurant.” 

Torture _me_ , Bunce? Keep me away from Simon’s mouth a few hours more? No. I will torture _you_. I choose an entirely vegan restaurant. 

She huffs and puffs, and eventually she calms down. 

“This isn’t awful,” she says, halfway through our meal. 

“High praise indeed, Bunce. Let’s see if they’d like to put that stellar review in the front window.” 

“I like it,” Simon smiles at me, mouth full of food. 

“You like everything.”

He smiles even broader, more wickedly. “That’s not true. I have very specific tastes,” he says, before licking his knife clean. 

Crowley, he’ll be the death of me. 

Luckily after dinner the Bunces are willing to admit they’re both exhausted, which means Simon and I don’t have to engage in any clever theatrics to get out of going to see a one man play about boats or attending an underground cèilidh or whatever entertainments Penelope might attempt to force on us. 

We get a cab back to the hotel together, and then go our separate ways. 

Simon has his shirt off before I’ve even shut the door. 

“Bit keen, are we?” 

He hoists me up forcefully, and I have to wrap my legs around his waist and cling to his shoulders in order not to fall over.

“Is this alright?” he asks, squeezing my thighs, hard.

“Yes,” I growl into his ear. “More. Give me everything.” 

He carries me to the bed and throws me backwards onto it. I land with a bounce and an awful, needy noise escapes me.

It’s shameful how much I like it, how much I want him to do it again. If I felt feral earlier, Simon looks it now, standing above me at the foot of the bed.

Last night we were all sweetness and softness, but tonight is clearly something different. Something I am achingly ready for. 

—

He wakes me in the morning with vegan pastries from the bakery across the street, and a kiss to my forehead. 

“Good morning, darling,” he whispers, pushing a bit of hair out of my face. “How are you feeling?”

I nearly sob from the overload of pleasure I feel at his words. I don’t deserve him, not one bit. But I will have him. Him and his vegan pastries. 

Simon and I meet up with the Bunces and do the castle. I’d like to be holding his hand while we walk, but we still haven’t discussed when we’re going to tell Penny. (Our mouths have been otherwise occupied with important matters.) 

Simon exhibits the expected level of enthusiasm throughout our wanderings in the castle, which is to say, far too much. 

“Bloody hell, Simon, people will think we’re tourists,” I complain as he nearly mashes his nose against a display case full of weaponry. He’s already been warned twice to step back from the displays. The Bunces have wandered off somewhere, bored already of Simon’s meanderings.

“But, we _are_ tourists.”

“Yes, but not like them,” I nod my head towards some Americans taking pictures of everything. The floor, the ceiling, the signs for the loo. Nothing is safe.

Simon turns on me, crosses his arms across his chest. 

“You care too much about what other people think of you.” 

“I don’t care what other people think about me. I resent that.”

“But that’s what this whole dark and broody act is, right? Your posh clothes and your sneer. You’re trying to control what other people think of you.” 

It’s infuriating how often he strings an arrow in his bow and launches it to the centre of my heart. 

“No. I don’t care what other people think.” 

“Prove it.” 

It takes me two strides to be in his personal space. Then I grab him forcefully and bend him over in a kiss that hurts my mouth with it’s forcefulness. 

“ _ **FUCKING FINALLY!**_ ” Penelope Bunce’s voice rings out so clear and pure and _loud_ that I nearly drop Simon on his arse into a display of thousand year old…sporrans or something. 

Which is the story of how we get kicked out of Edinburgh Castle. 

Honestly, I’m rather proud of us.

We laughingly spill into the street and find the first non-touristy pub in which to comfort and congratulate ourselves.

“How long?” Bunce asks once we have our drinks.

“That’s rather forward of you, Bunce, but I will say Simon is _more_ than adequate.” 

He chokes on his whiskey and turns red. 

“Fucking hell, Baz!” 

I smirk and sip and smile. The flush on Simon’s cheeks is delicious.

“I _meant_ how long has this been going on, you sex pest.” 

“Oh, em…well…” Simon worries the back of his neck. I think about reaching over and taking his hand to comfort him through his bluster, and then I remember _I can_. He smiles when I do, and takes a deep breath, squeezing my hand back. 

“The night we got here. Think maybe I’ve had feelings for a lot longer than that, though,” Simon says. 

“Uh, yeah. Duh, my dudes,” Shepard laughs. 

Penny leans back with a self-satisfied look on her face. Oh Crowley, she’s going to take credit for this, isn’t she? How unbearable. 

—

I feel guilty for my part in getting us kicked out of the castle, which means I let Simon convince me to make the trek up to Arthur’s Seat. Even the Bunces fobbed off and refused.

But he’s holding my hand in his as we walk, running his thumb over my knuckles, and I know I’m utterly lost in all ways. I would do anything to keep him in smiles that wide and gregarious. 

The wind is biting at the top. I’d like to bite it back.

“You can see everything,” he breathes. 

“Yes, that is rather the point, isn’t it?”

He snakes his arm around my waist and pulls me to his side. 

“Stop being snarky and enjoy it.” 

“What if I enjoy being snarky? What then?” 

He kisses me on the cheek. Oh, I do enjoy that. 

“Use your imagination, look around, and try not to ruin this for me, too,” he laughs. 

I do. He wanders off a ways, to stare out at the city and the firth. I could watch him for hours, and now I’m allowed. So I allow myself. 

He’s sunlit and beautiful. The wind whips his curls in a riot. He’s jammed his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and I like the way his elbows jut out behind him. He looks heroic like this. Epic. Foretold. He turns his head, following the curve of the firth away from the city and beyond. For a moment the sun catches his eyes just right, and they blaze preternaturally. He smiles. I don’t know what he’s looking at that makes him smile, but I feel a pang of jealousy that it’s not me. 

Slowly, I slide my phone out of my pocket and take a few pictures of him. He doesn’t need to know. 

Then I go to him, slide my arm through his, and stand there trying to see what he sees. 

“Are you imagining magical worlds?” 

He sighs, and it’s a wholesome sound. It fills and feeds me. “Right now I’m just enjoying the world as it is. Life feels good,” he rests his head against my shoulder. “Thank you for coming up here with me.” 

“Anything for you, Simon. Anything and everything.” 

—

We wander the city a bit. Eventually we end up at the National Gallery. They have a collection of etchings, lithographs, and woodcuts I was hoping to see. 

As we walk through the exhibits we have to stop at every painting that has thick, rich blobs of colour, because, well, Simon. 

On our way through a room with sculptures he suddenly reaches up and wraps a warm hand over my eyes. 

“Simon!” I hiss quietly. “What are you doing?” 

“There’s one of those awful Damien Hirst installations, Baz. It’s a lamb trapped in perspex. I’m protecting your delicate vegan eyes from the sight of it.” 

I wrest myself free of his hand. He’s right, though, it’s a dreadful piece of art. Who wants to look at a dead lamb? 

The exhibit of prints is lovely. I feel inspired by it. I’ve been faltering in my work for my solo show that’s coming up (horrifyingly, disturbingly) soon. 

Simon is stuck in front of an Albrecht Dürer woodcut, [Saint Michael Fighting the Dragon (The Apocalypse)](https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/34295/saint-michael-fighting-dragon-apocalypse?artists%5B14890%5D=14890&search_set_offset=44). It’s very him. Wings, tails, swords, and magic all whirl through the air in a riot of movement. 

“I like it,” he says. 

“You _are_ it.” 

He laughs.

“Sometimes I think about having my demon tattoos lasered off,” he says softly. 

“Let’s not be too hasty,” I cock my head and examine the print closer. “Perhaps you might consider reframing your tattoos in a new light? Perhaps they’re not demon parts at all, but rather dragon parts?” 

He stares at the wings of the dragon in the print. 

“Maybe they are,” he says, as he squeezes my hand. I see a smile slowly spread across his face.

On our way out we stand beneath the massive neon letter installation on the outside of the building. The letters buzz faintly, and burn blue in the fading sunlight. 

[EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE ALRIGHT.](https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/106670/work-no-975-everything-going-be-alright) They spell out.

“Do you think it will be?” Simon asks, holding my hand tightly in his own. I don’t know what he means exactly. Us? The world? Is he thinking how, if this ends in flames, it would affect the shop he’s worked so hard to start with Penny, and the place he’s carved out for himself? 

“I think all we can do is carry on believing that it will.” 

— 

The Bunces text to cancel their dinner plans with us. I send Penny a thank you and she responds with the most filthy string of emojis I’ve ever seen. 

“So, what shall we do?” 

“Well, there’s that vegan restaurant from last night. Then we could wander the city a bit...” 

I’m waiting for the “or.”

“ _Or..._ ” There it is. “We could go back to the hotel.” 

“Shall we walk back? It’s not far,” I say, squeezing his hand. He squeezes back, then lets go.

“Race you,” he says, turning to dash off.

I grab his wrist before he can get out of reach.

“No, Simon. Save your energy. You’re going to need it for tonight.” 

He groans and practically collapses on me, shoving his face into my neck.

“You’re going to wreck me for tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“No, love, I’m going to wreck you for forever.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a very specific painting I wanted the lads to see while in the Scottish National Gallery, but of course I couldn't find it on their website. Turns out the Durer woodcut was about 100% more appropriate for the two of them to see/take inspiration from. 
> 
> If you like art you could do worse than to virtually wander through the [Scottish National Gallery's collection](https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists) of an evening.


	16. A Meltdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cricket legs, painfully beautiful art, and sketching in bed. Posh is what you make of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reference the following painting in this chapter, and wanted to include the link separately up here as it involves artistic nudity (bits are covered, but, it’s like…a LOT of flesh and the website has other paintings of nudes). I’m linking it separately so you can decide if you want to click through to see the art or not. [Cabanel’s Fallen Angel](https://wikioo.org/paintings.php?refarticle=8BWMPJ&artistname=Alexandre%20Cabanel)

**Baz**  
Finally getting together with the man you love should fix all the problems, right? We’ve done the difficult bit, we’ve finally removed our heads from our arses and snogged and decided to be boyfriends. Now it should be all kissing and love and wonderful, right? 

I’m sure it would be, if we were ever able to bloody see one another. Once we were back from Edinburgh the fierce urgency of my solo art show being a month away hit me like a lorry. And Simon, being the lovely, good souled person he is, refuses to “distract me from my work." What a jerk.

But he’s distracting whether he has his tongue in my mouth or not. And now my gallery show is a week and a half away and I’m completely fucked. 

Well…not _completely_. 

My thighs are grinding together like a cricket’s, I’m surprised the whole shop can’t hear the infuriating hum of them as I glare at a swath of Simon’s pale, freckled skin. He’s practically folded himself in half to tattoo his client’s leg and his shirt is riding up his back. 

I’d like to ride up his back. Or have him ride up mine. I’m versatile. 

It was a mistake to go to Edinburgh, I know that now. It was a beautiful, lovely, achingly delicious mistake, which I would make over and over again, but now I’m utterly fucked for my gallery show in May. I'm not ready. I’m not going to _be_ ready. I’m unprepared, the show will be a disaster, and I will gnaw my own arm off if I don’t have Snow soon. 

Actually, that could be a plan. I’ll send the gallery my arm in a box, along with an apology note. _So sorry, I’ll be unable to show my work due to frustrations of a sexual nature which led to this unfortunate, but necessary, result._

They could display it, both my arm and the note. I’d probably win the Turner Prize.

I grit my teeth and stare at Simon's lower back again, tools clanking around on my rolling cart. 

“Simon, tug your shirt down,” Penny says to him. He looks around, confused, and fixes his shirt. Penny shoots me a wink and goes back to her sketchbook.

Dammit, I don’t know whether to kiss you or kill you, Penelope Bunce. 

I continue setting up my station, and aggressively _not_ looking at Simon, which means I don’t notice him push off and fly across the room into my personal space until it’s too late. He leaps up off his rolling stool and wraps me into a deep kiss. 

“Excuse me, slags, this is a place of business,” Penny cackles.

Simon flips her the V. I feel him smiling against my mouth.

“How tremendously unprofessional,” she laughs. Simon keeps kissing me though. Once he’s set his mind to a task he’ll never be stopped. And I like being the task he sets his mind to. 

He pulls back, eventually, and I gulp for air. I look past him to see if he’s abandoned his client, but no, they’re just outside smoking a cigarette. It’s just Penny, he, and I in the shop. 

I rest my forehead against the top of his head and breathe him in. 

“Come round tonight,” I whisper. “It’s been too long.” 

“You have work to do.” 

“I have _you_ to do.” 

“Smooth.” 

“I know. So come round,” I kiss the top of his head and tuck two fingers from each hand into his front pockets. Then I tug his pelvis towards me.

“I won’t distract you,” he shakes his head. Damn his self-control. Damn mine.

“You always distract me.” 

“Are you ready for your show?” 

“…no.” 

“Then I won’t come round.” 

“Fine. You leave me no choice, Simon Snow. I’m breaking up with you," I say, still tugging on his trouser pockets.

“That seems like a fair and reasonable reaction, Baz. Still wanna have lunch together?”

“Sure, love, I’ll have a break in a couple hours.” 

He stretches up to kiss me on the tip of my nose. 

I love him so much, but I still haven't managed to tell him properly.

  
**Simon**  
I’ll gnaw my own leg off if I can’t have Baz soon, but I won’t distract him from his work. 

This show he has in a week is a big fucking deal. I won’t get in the way of that. 

I can be patient. For him, I can wait. 

It’s late when my phone goes off. I’m in bed when it happens: three blaring text alerts in a row. 

_Having a bit of a meltdown._   
_Will you come over?_   
_Please?_

I don’t know if this is a sexy meltdown, or an artistic meltdown, but I rush to put my clothes back on and and run out the door. Baz never actually asks for help, and I suppose he hasn’t really asked for help at all, just asked me to come round. But he's used the word please, and that feels like something. It feels like progress. It's as good as begging from Baz Pitch.

I jog all the way to his flat. His door is unlocked when I arrive, and inside his flat is utter chaos. 

Baz has filled his living room with prints upon prints, some already framed, some just stacks of loose paper. There are metal plates from his etchings strewn everywhere. It looks like someone took Baz’s flat and shook it up. It looks like an absolute nutter’s snowglobe. 

And the nutter himself stands in the middle of it all, hands pulling at his hair, breathing heavily and surveying his domain. 

“Is this a bad time? I can come back later after you’ve finished your mental breakdown.” 

He whirls at the sound of my voice, hands still hopelessly tangled in his hair, face desperate, grey eyes flashing. 

“I-I-,” he starts and stops. I rush to him, which is no easy feat, as I have to carefully navigate piles and piles of art. 

I practically have to tread on his feet to avoid the art around us. I wrap him up in my arms and kiss his cheek. 

“What’s all this?”

“This is my art show. Obviously.” 

“Obviously. What’s the meltdown? What happened?” 

“I just…I don’t…I’m not ready. It’s not enough,” Baz mumbles, eyes darting around the room. I never see him at a loss for words, or out of control…well…not outside the bedroom at least. It’s freaking me out a little bit. 

I think this is a chance for me to be strong for him. A chance to prove I’m not a labradoodle of a man, but that I’m his capable, supportive boyfriend who can be there when things are difficult. 

“Alright, the first thing we need to do is get out of this tip you call your living room. Maybe have a cup of tea, or a shot of something strong, and then we can figure out what to do next.” 

Carefully, I navigate him through the piles of art and into the kitchen. I flip on the kettle while he stands there sort of mumbling to himself. Is he actually having a nervous breakdown? At what point do I call in reserves? (Penny. Penny is reserves.)

I make him a strong cuppa, and also pour him some whiskey. 

“Baz? You still here with me?” 

He startles at the sound of my voice, as if he forgot I was here.

“Which one?” I ask, holding out both the tea and the whiskey. 

His eyes dart between them. Then he grabs them both and alternates sips. 

Alright. That was also an option.

I pour myself some whiskey, too.

After he’s finished both his drinks, and he’s let me pet his belly for a bit, and shush gently into his hair, he’s able to talk. 

“I’m not ready for the show.” 

“Sure you are, you’ve been working since back in December. You’re ready.” 

“No, I’m not ready. I can’t do it. It’s not enough.”

“Well, how many finished pieces do you have out there?” 

“Fifty eight.” 

“Alright, that’s a lot, that’s good,” I nod. “And how many pieces do you need for the show?”

“Thirty.” 

“ _Thirty?!"_ I screech. It comes out hysterical. "You’re having a meltdown because you have _too many_ good pieces of art? Are you taking the piss? All this time you’ve been saying you’re not ready for your show and you need to work, and here I was thinking you only had a few pieces…you absolute berk. I’m done. Goodbye,” I start to leave. I’m not actually angry with him, of course. But I am a little annoyed with myself, because _of course_ he would have a meltdown over having too many pieces of art. Of course he would. Baz fucking Pitch. I think I might love him.

Baz reaches out and grabs my wrist, stopping me halfway through my (fake) tantrum. 

“They’re not enough, though. They’re not good enough, and it’s not enough, and everyone will see, and I’m never going to get another show after this.”

“Well, that was a whole load of shite in one breath, but ok.”

He laughs. It’s good to hear him laugh. I nuzzle my face against him and kiss the hollow of his neck. 

“I’ve missed you,” I whisper to his skin. 

“I’ve missed you too,” he wraps his arms around me and I sigh into him. “I’m sorry.”

“Here’s the plan. It’ll work just like flash day, right? We go out there and sort through your finished pieces and look for a theme. Then we decide which version of each print will best fit within that theme and plan the show out from there, alright?”

He pulls back for a moment and stares at me. His face looks so open, so earnest. He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand and kisses me along my eyebrows. Why is it everything he does feel so right? So good?

“You are a wonder, Simon Snow. I don’t deserve you.” 

“Deserve or not, you’re stuck with me, so let’s go plan your show.” 

It’s somewhat infuriating, because it’s all exceptional. So delicate and detailed. The kind of thing only he could accomplish. His subject matter is all over the place, it seems like he can do whatever he turns his hand to, which makes me feel a little fucked off for a moment. Save a little talent for the rest of us, Basilton. 

He shows me the thirty pieces he’s picked for his show. And they’re lovely. He’s pulled some beautiful landscapes, where the leaves seem to shake and shimmer on the trees, and the light pours down from the sky. He has some lovely portraits, where the sitter seems to vibrate with life on the page and plate. They’re all marked with technical merit, precise and perfect, but there’s something missing and I don’t know how to say it to him. 

I walk back and forth looking through his work. Off to the side is a small collection of prints he’s chosen not to show. 

“Can I look at these?” I say, gesturing towards the stack. He nods. 

They’re all portraits, and they hurt to look at, they’re so visceral. So real, yet fantastical.

They’re close portraits, uncomfortably close, in every way possible. The sitters are all wracked with emotion: rage, tearful joy, sorrow. Their feelings are written so vividly on their faces. Also vivid on these prints are the flowers and plants that explode and fill the page around each subject. There are thistles creeping up from the fingers of the sitter in one portrait, blooming thick and sharp above their head as they cradle their sorrow-wracked face in their hands. There is a chubby faced child that looks a bit like Baz (a younger sibling maybe?) surrounded by chrysanthemums that seem to have been forced into bloom by her joy. I can practically hear her laughter. Baz talks me through each portrait. 

He gets to one that’s a self-portrait, and I can tell he’s nervous for me to see it. In it his hair flows around him in waves and his eyes are clenched shut in pain. The same cabbage roses that are tattooed on his hip, the ones he told me represent love, pour out of his mouth, as if they’re vomiting from his stomach and lungs. I see the date. It's from December. He made it while we were closed for the holidays.

“Sometimes my desire for you felt like a choking thing. I thought, perhaps, I wouldn’t survive it,” he says, running his fingers lightly over the petals of the flowers. “What a beautiful way to go. From loving too much, no longer being able to contain such an excess of love.” 

If I were a crying sort of person, like Ebb, I think I would be sobbing now. I think I’d have to cling to him, and cry and cry and cry until there were nothing left in me. To be loved so much, so fully, so purely, by him and to not have known I was loved…it hurts. It hurts and it feels like a revelation. An epiphany. I hold his face in my hands, stroking his cheekbones with my thumbs and I kiss him, gently. He still hasn't said he loves me, but he proves it to me every day. I hope he can feel what I’m feeling, too.

“I think these should be the centrepiece of your show,” I say, gesturing to these visceral floral portraits. 

“I’m not sure, Simon. They’re too raw.” 

“People like raw. They want to see you. This gallery wanted _you_. Give them all of you, the darkness and the light.”

I gently push him backwards by the shoulders until he’s sitting on his sofa, then I survey his art before pulling pieces, one at a time, and arranging them across the room. I grab some of the original plates, to be displayed beside the prints he made from them. I don’t always choose the most pristine print from each plate, like Baz did. Some of the prints with mistakes, misprints, are far more compelling. 

He lets me work. I feel his eyes on me, but he never questions. He doesn’t interrupt, or tell me off, or call me half-numpty. He just waits. And watches. 

“There. If it were me, and it’s not, so do whatever you want, but if it were me, that would be the show. Darkness and light. The play of ink and negative space. Deliberate marks and mistakes. Sorrow and pain and love and joy.”

He rises to stand beside me, looks at the pieces I’ve chosen, the way they’re arranged. 

“I’m not sure if I can exhibit that one,” he says, pointing at his self-portrait. “It’s too much of my heart.”

“Give them your heart. Let them see it.” 

He kisses me, slow and soft and sweet. It rapidly builds into something more, into an urgent, pressing need. 

“It’s been too long.” 

“I’m here now.” 

“Thank you for coming."

"I'm your boyfriend. I'm here to support you."

He groans, it's a low satisfied sound. "I knew I wanted you, Simon, but I didn’t know how badly I _needed_ you,” he whispers against my lips.

We crash onto the sofa, his artwork, his heart, filling the room around us. 

  
**Baz**  
He’s asleep beside me, making that endearing little sighing sound he makes. I can’t sleep, though. I’m too wired, and he’s too beautiful. So, I find a sketchbook and pencil, then I sit in bed beside him sketching. 

He’s laying on his stomach, his arm splayed out in front of him. His curls tumble wantonly over his forehead. I try to capture the curve of his jaw, his wide nose, and his long ridiculous neck. I get stuck for a while on his shoulders. They’re strong, and dotted with freckles. I’d like to lean over and touch his shoulders to feel the muscle beneath, but I don’t want to wake him. He’s too sweet, too peaceful, too perfect to disturb. He’s an angel from a renaissance painting. In fact, with his face smashed against the pillow and his arm splayed out he looks like that [Rosso Fiorentino painting of the musical cherub](https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/musical-angel-rosso-fiorentino/YgFYC_DCsZQu8A). Or perhaps Cabanel’s Fallen Angel, except, with a demon’s wings sprouting from his back.

While he sleeps, I fill page after page in my sketchbook with drawings of him. The room is full of the quiet sounds of Simon sleeping and the soft shush of graphite along the page. 

Then, I sneak away to my studio to work. I have an idea. I need to chase the image in my mind, see if I can capture it. 

I’ve been working for an hour or so when I hear Simon shuffling around outside the door. He knocks (he knocks! Be still my heart) and the sweetness of his not presuming he can enter nearly makes me cry. 

“Come in, Simon. You don’t ever need to knock.” 

He’s rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hand and squinting against the light. Crowley, he’s handsome. 

He steps behind me, resting his chin on my shoulder and wrapping his arms around my chest. I cap my pen and set it down. 

“Woke up and you weren’t there…” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. 

“Had an idea for a new piece, wanted to see if there was any merit in it.” 

“And is there?” 

I gesture to the page in front of me. It’s a drawing of him, I’ve used a few different references, including some of the pictures I took at the top of Arthur’s Seat. In it he’s in three quarter view, turned away from the viewer. His freckled skin is on display. He’s looking out, defiantly, a smile on his lips, curls a riot, eyes dancing wickedly. His wings, dragon wings, are sprouting from his back and light shines around his head like a halo. He’s an avenging angel, a warrior, a dragon, a demon, a boy. Everything. He’s everything. 

“That’s me,” he says, sleepily. 

“It is, love.” 

“Is this how you see me?” 

“Yes, but a still image can’t capture the celestial chorus I hear when you make eye contact with me, or the way the air around you positively radiates with the magic of your presence.” 

“You’re talking too fancy for three in the morning…” 

“I know.” 

“Will you give me flowers? Like your other portraits?” he squeezes his arms around my chest. 

“What flowers would you like?” 

“I trust your judgement. You’re the artist.” 

“Could I exhibit it? If I can finish in time?” 

He kisses me on the side of the head. 

“Yeah, of course you can,” he’s still sort of sleepily nuzzling the side of my face, and for a moment I’m outside myself looking in. The life I see is more than I ever hoped or imagined it could be. More than I dreamed. 

“You coming back to bed or staying up?” 

“I think I’ll work a bit longer. You go back to sleep.” 

“Alright. I’m proud of you. Love you,” he kisses my head again and shuffles back out of the room. 

Love you. He said “love you.”

I know he’s half asleep, so it doesn’t count…and it’s still far too early in our relationship for him to mean it…but…

He said “love you.” 

He said love you and my idiot self didn’t say it back. 

**Simon**

We get to laze about in bed the next morning because neither of us have clients until the afternoon, and because Baz has unclenched over his show. Thank fuck. 

He’s tracing the outline of the dragon wings on my back while we lay together. I’d like to melt into the bed. 

I turn my head and kiss the dahlias that bloom on Baz’s shoulder. Dear god, they’re beautiful. He’s beautiful. He’s an absolute mess and he’s beautiful. His hair is utterly fucked from everything we did last night and this morning, and stubble marks his jaw. He has the heating cranked high and the duvet and sheets pushed down, so the lush garden that is his body is on full display. 

The sight of it makes my toes curl. 

“Thank you for coming over last night, Simon. I’m sorry I was having a meltdown.” 

“Stop apologising for being a human, Baz. Humans need each other sometimes. You know that doesn’t make you weak, right?” 

He rolls over towards me, and stares at me beneath a messy wave of dark hair. 

“It’s hard to unlearn,” he says. 

“It is. But it’s worth it, right? It’s nice to help and be helped.”

“No. I hate it,” he grumps. 

“So you hated it when I dropped stuff off when you were sick at new years? Yeah, really seemed like it from how you’ve got my drawing tacked up on your fridge,” I smile at the thought of it. Seeing it there made something inside my heart ping around in my chest. 

He groans and turns to hide his head in the pillow. When he talks it’s muffled. “I’m so weak for you.” 

“I’m proud of you for being able to admit that,” I laugh. Then I bite his shoulder. He gasps and we lose ourselves in one another for a while. 

——

“What will you wear to the reception?” I ask him later. I’m sitting up in bed sipping a tea he’s brought me while he digs about in his wardrobe getting ready for the day. “A suit? Your aunt made it seem like you were always gagging to wear one.”

“Simon, there’s only one thing I’m always gagging for, and it’s you.” 

I like that. Baz is good with his words. It’s somewhat infuriating.

“Yes, but what will you wear? I imagine you have a collection of suits you’ll need to get out of storage so you can decide on just the right one.” 

Baz rummages in his wardrobe, pulls out a garment bag, and tosses it on the bed in front of me. 

“That’s my suit.” 

“What?” 

“That’s it. That’s my suit. Nothing in cold storage, no secret bunker full of menswear. Just the one.” 

“One?” What does he mean _one_? He’s Baz.

“Simon, we’ve talked about this before. I think you’ve made some assumptions about me that aren’t entirely fair.” 

“But…you’re so posh.”

“What does posh mean, Simon?” He crosses his arms and leans back against his wardrobe, staring me down. 

“Well, I mean, you dress nice, and you smell nice, and you speak so formally, and you act like you’re better than everyone.” 

“So that’s all it takes to be posh? Regularly bathing, wearing nice clothes, and being a bit of a stuck-up twat?” 

“I guess, yeah.”

“Posh is a social construct,” he says dismissively. 

“Like gender?”

“Yes, like gender.” 

“So, you’re not posh?”

“I already told you, I’m a farmer’s kid.” 

Huh. I mean, I get it. But also, I'm kind of having fun riling him up. So I'm going to keep at it.

“But you speak really posh.” 

He sighs. 

“I speak formally because I was raised by a rather distant single father. I speak the way I speak mostly due to how he spoke to me. Cold. Aloof.” 

Well, shit, it's less fun riling him up when we end up talking about our sad childhoods. He pulls out some nice black jeans and a t-shirt out of his wardrobe, along with a soft grey jumper. 

“But you dress all posh.” 

“You’re rather fixated on that word, aren’t you? I invest my money in a few really nice, high quality pieces. They go a long way,” he opens the doors on his wardrobe and gestures at his clothes. Honestly. I was expecting more. There’s not much in there, really. Not at all what I was expecting. It’s all monochromatic. I guess maybe that’s so it all matches? I dunno. 

“Is that really it?” 

“That’s it.” 

“But…” 

“Instead of buying fifteen shitty fast-fashion shirts that wear out super fast and I have to constantly replace, I buy one very nice, ethically made, high quality shirt. And then I take care of it.” 

“You calling my wardrobe shitty?” 

He picks up my worn and slightly tattered jeans from the floor. “Why, Simon! I would never!” he says, pretending to be offended. 

I laugh, and he throws my jeans at my face. 

“But yes, Simon, I will probably wear a suit,” he says. 

“Good. I liked you in that suit. You looked...” I let my words hang in the air, ready to irritate him. "... _posh_." 

“Again, my _father_ is a _farmer_."

“Unf. That’s true. Come here farm boy.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I shoe-horn in an exchange that touches on fast fashion AND gender AND class? You know it baby. *finger guns*


	17. The Chosen One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosebuds & roses, and a match made in hell. Spring brings it's own unique problems.

**Baz**  
I’m setting up my station for the day when Simon charges into the shop, eyes blazing. 

“Need to speak with you,” he whispers to me, jerking his head towards the back door. 

On my way out I hear Penny mutter a quiet, “ooooooh, someone’s in _trouble!_ ” 

I shoot her my most withering look, but Penny remains irritatingly unwithered. 

Simon is pacing in the alley when I get outside. 

“What’s wrong, love?” 

“Flowers,” he says, eyes blazing. “Flowers are what’s wrong.” 

He’s tearing at his curls. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Slow down, take a deep breath.” 

He does. He drops his hands from his hair and I catch them in mine. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them I can tell he's calmer. More rational.

“Alright. What’s all this about you making enemies with flowers and spring time?” 

“I was at the shop, right? And they had this big display of flowers at the front, and some of them were the ones you have, you know, right here?” he gestures towards the left side of his lower back. 

“Striped tulips. What about them?”

“I found myself getting…” he drops his voice, even though we’re the only two people in the alley. “Getting…you know.” 

"No, I don't know. What?"

"Excited."

“Excited?”

“You know… _excited,_ ” he raises his eyebrows at me. OH! _Excited._

The laughter explodes out of me like machine gun fire. 

“It’s not funny, Baz!”

“You’re right,” I say, tears in my eyes. “It’s not funny, it’s absolutely hysterical. You became aroused looking at flowers!” 

“It’s your fault!” he growls, stomping away. I grab for him, but he dodges my hands and flings himself dramatically into a chair.

“Please, Simon. Tell me more about this terrible floral affliction!” 

“Don’t take the piss! Spring is going to be awful!” 

“I’ve conditioned you to get aroused looking at flowers. This is my crowning achievement in life. Nothing will ever be better than this.” 

“Sod off.” 

“This is the most delightful thing I’ve heard all day. Oh, Crowley, thank you for telling me,” I still can’t stop laughing. I’m wiping tears from my eyes and he’s growling and grumbling.

He snarls and stomps back into the shop, letter the door slam shut behind him. That's fine. I have an errand to run anyway…to the florist around the corner. 

Twenty minutes later I place a jar full of striped tulips, zinnias, and oleander on the front counter of the shop.

“Those are lovely, Basilton. Nice to have a bit of spring in here,” Penny calls from her station. 

Simon practically growls from his rolling stool where he’s waiting on his client. I shoot him a wink and then lean on the counter, extracting my phone from my pocket slowly. I nod at him and he grabs his phone from where he's left it.

_Did you know…_  
_Tulips symbolise passion, and also indulgence?_  
_Oleander is for desire._  
_And zinnias are for endurance._

I send each message one at a time, watching his reaction as he reads my messages. His eyebrows are halfway up his forehead by my last text. 

**Endurance?**

_Endurance._  
_May I stay over tonight?_

**Yes yes please yes.**

Simon’s enthusiasm is everything I need in this world. He seemed to think my calling him a labradoodle of a man was a bad thing, but who doesn’t like labradoodles? They’re adorable, loyal, smart, and they get so very excited when you want to play with them.

  
**Penny**  
Simon, Shepard, and I offer to help Baz get ready for his show. We all meet up at his flat in the afternoon to help him mount the etching plates and frame up the last of the prints. 

Simon orders food, and because he’s in charge he orders far too much. Baz and him bicker and fight over it, but it's sweet bickering, which I think is the best we can hope for these two morons. Shepard puts on a record from Baz’s collection, and we sit on the sofa to eat because, as posh as Baz’s flat seems, he doesn’t have a dining table. Baz can’t stop smiling the whole time. I’ve never seen him look like this before. Happy. Content. It suits him.

When we’re done we haul his work down to the gallery to set up. Baz starts to spiral a few times, having freak outs over stupid things. The space, the flow, the lighting. Every time he starts up Simon is there at his side talking him down. 

“I agree, the lighting in this corner is absolute shite. I’ll go find a ladder. We’ll fix it,” Simon says. With a reassuring squeeze of Baz’s shoulder, he goes marching off to find the gallery assistant. The utterly useless gallery assistant who promised they’d be around to help, but fucked off almost as soon as they saw how many of us there were. 

I sidle up into Baz’s personal space. 

“So…” 

“So _what_ , Bunce?”

“Things seem to be going well between you and Simon.”

He pivots on his heels and stares down at me, arms clasped behind his back. 

“Is this the best friend conversation? The one where you warn me that if I hurt him, you’ll hurt me?” he smiles wickedly. 

“No,” I answer. Yes. It was going to be. He’s rather taken the wind out of my sails. 

“Well, perhaps it would be helpful for you to know, Bunce, that I have adored Simon since we were 18. That, despite years and distance between us, I kept up with his career and rooted for him from afar. And perhaps it would also help you to know that if I hurt someone as good, and honest, and kind as Simon, I will shave my head as penance. Fair?” 

“That seems fair.”

“Excellent. Ah, here’s Simon with the ladder.” 

The two of them adjust the lights so they better illuminate the prints in this part of the gallery. They still bicker, Simon thinks two bulbs at an angle is optimal, while Baz only wants one. It’s oddly supportive bickering. Simon wants whats best for Baz, and is standing his ground to get it. 

We make quick work of hanging Baz’s show, and the useless gallery assistant eventually strolls out with a sticker sheet that’s been printed with all the titles of Baz’s works, along with their prices 

“Holy hell…is this what you sell them for?!” Shepard asks, taking the sticker he’s been handed for the artwork in front of him. 

“They do take a great deal of time and effort, and extremely specialised tools.” 

“Where’s this one go?” Simon asks, peeling a sticker off the sheet. “Title says _Chosen One_.” 

Baz blushes. That’s a rarity. 

“It’s for your portrait, Simon.” 

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve actually seen that one yet, where am I?” 

Baz gestures to a spot along the wall. The etching of Simon is beautiful. He looks luminous. Somehow Baz managed to capture Simon’s impish spirit. Despite the massive wings sprouting realistically from his back, he doesn’t look demonic. Instead he looks, somehow, incredibly sweet and soft. The freckles across his cheeks and shoulder make the portrait look alive, and vining in the background are tightly packed rosebuds, ready to explode into blossom. 

I turn and look across the room. Yup. Directly across from Simon’s portrait is Baz’s. Baz is vomiting up the roses which are budding in the background of Simon’s picture. 

It’s beautiful. I can’t stop looking between them. They match. 

“You made me look better than I am,” Simon says. 

“I did no such thing.” 

“Wait, this says _not for sale_. I’m not for sale? You don’t think I’ll sell?” Simon pouts, holding up the sticker for his portrait. 

“No, I’m confident you’d sell, but I refuse to let anyone else have you,” Baz says matter-of-factly. Simon smiles at him goofily. These two morons are absolutely gone for each other. 

“Hey, Penny? Sweetness? Love of my life? How come you’ve never made art of me looking like the hero in a fairytale?” Shepard laughs. 

I go to him, take his hands in mine and stare up into his beautiful deep brown eyes. 

“Because, Shepard, I’m not emotionally constipated. And unlike these two melodramatic morons who can only proclaim their love for one another through metaphors, innuendo, and grand sweeping gestures, I’m mature enough to look you in the eye anytime I like, and tell you how much I absolutely love and adore you, and how much better my life is with you in it.” 

“That was a good answer,” he smiles, and it crinkles up the corners of his eyes. 

“I know,” I squeeze his hands before turning to Simon. “Alright, Rosebud Boy, stop making cow eyes at Baz and slap that sticker in place. I’m tired and ready to go home.” 

We finish placing all the tags for Baz’s art, and he hangs his artist statement by the entrance. Then we silently leave the gallery, not telling the useless assistant we’re going. Serves them right, they can figure out we’re gone later. It’s passive aggressive and feels great. We giggle all the way down the street.

  
**Baz**  
The gallery reception for my show is that Friday night. Simon, Penny and I have clients all day. I planned it out that way purposefully. I knew it would be helpful to work that day to keep my brain distracted from the unholy terrors of my opening night reception. Preemptive spiral stoppage. 

I give Simon a peck on the top of the head when I’m done with my last client and heading home to get ready. 

“See you there?” 

“You’re sure you don’t want me there early? I can cancel my last client,” he looks up at me from his rolling stool, eyes so blue, face so open and pure. 

I squeeze his shoulder. “Don’t cancel with your client. That’s not the kind of person you are. I’ll see you later. Don’t rush, love.” 

He leans over and kisses my hand where it’s holding his shoulder. 

“See you there, then.” 

“See you there. Bunce, you and your handsome husband still coming?”

“Yes, of course, Basilton! You’re family. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Also…free booze.”

We laugh and I wave goodbye to them before heading out. I feel so light in my heart that I can barely stand it. 

—

The Bunces arrive before Simon. They look exceptional, of course they do. Penelope is wearing an incredible turquoise jumpsuit and Shepard is has on black trousers, a white button down and a skinny black necktie. He has a dark denim jacket on that’s covered in pins and he exudes the kind of American cool you see on street style blogs. 

“Simon sends his apologies,” Bunce starts. 

What? Why? Is he not coming? Why isn’t he coming??

I take a deep breath, reign in my nerves, and calmly ask, “Is everything alright?” 

“Everything’s fine, his last client was just being a picky jerk. Made Simon redo the placement on his tattoo four different times and eventually went back to the original spot. We stuck around to make sure he wasn’t going to hassle him, and left to get ready once he started cleanup at the end.” 

“I should just text him and tell him to stay home. He’s had a couple awful clients this week, hasn’t he?” 

“Yeah,” Shepard nods. “Something about Simon’s kindness really brings out the asshole in some people, doesn’t it?” 

“That was certainly true for me,” I laugh. 

Several galleries in the area are having their opening receptions tonight, so couples and groups wander in and out. It’s rather busy. I see a few familiar faces, and get caught in both comfortable and uncomfortable conversations about my work. Luckily the useless gallery assistant is off tonight, with a much more competent and capable individual in their place. They seek me out occasionally, making introductions to people they think I should know, and updating me when a piece sells. 

“Several enquiries about _Chosen One,_ ” they say, nodding to my portrait of Simon, smiling. “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t want to do a run of prints?”

“No, he’s not for sale.” 

“Well,” they smile kindly. “I’ve been taking contact information, just in case you change your mind.” 

As if summoned by our conversation, Simon enters the gallery. He’s wearing a grey suit with a thin black tie. Simon owns a suit? A _grey_ suit? He owns a tie?! He looks incredible. 

“Well,” the gallery assistant says, looking between Simon and his portrait. “I can certainly understand why you might want to keep him for yourself.”

There is a delicious moment where I get to watch as Simon scans the room. His brows are furrowed as he looks for me in the crowd, before his whole faces erupts into a bright smile when he catches sight of me. We meet in the middle of the room. 

“Simon, you look…” I find myself at a very sudden loss for words. It’s terribly embarrassing. 

He leans in to kiss me on the cheek and whispers in my ear. “I know. And you haven’t even seen me from the back yet,” he pulls away and laughs. 

Well, he’s just all kinds of trouble, isn’t he? 

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he stammers. Crowley, he’s handsome. I’d like to grab him by his tie and...

I take a deep breath. 

“It’s fine, love. I heard you had a bit of a nightmare client.” 

“I hate being late, you know that, and tonight of all nights…” he looks distressed. He's a moment away from ruining his curls and I will not have that tonight.

I squeeze his hand in mine. Then a take a deep breath. He follows suit, squeezing back and taking a deep breath.

“I'm glad you're here. Let me introduce you to a few people.” 

  
**Simon**  
Baz is in his element. He’s always in his element, though. He’s holding a glass of wine in one hand and talking to a friend of Shepard’s about the inspiration for his floral portraits. We’re standing together in a small group. 

Then he spots someone enter the gallery and his sentence fades away. 

“Bloody hell…Mordelia,” he says, quietly. 

“What’s a Mordelia?” 

“That,” he says, gesturing to a young woman walking in. “Is a Mordelia.” 

She looks like the long lost member of Le Tigre or Hole. She looks tough as nails in her big stompy doc martens and a flowery sun dress, with a motorcycle jacket over top. 

She spots Baz and a huge smile breaks across her face. I know that smile. She’s the kid from Baz’s floral portrait of joy, the one with the chrysanthemums in the background. 

She crosses the room to join us. 

“Basilton.” 

“Mordelia.” 

They eye each other up for a moment, before she launches herself into his arms. 

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says, his voice coming out strained from the force of her hug.

“I didn’t want to. I _do_ have better things to do, you know.” 

He laughs. 

“Is that a _leather_ jacket?” he asks, eyeing her. 

She smiles back at him wickedly, rubbing the lapels. “Of _course_ it is.”

Baz laughs and rolls his eyes. 

“Could I introduce you to my Sword of Mages Tattoo family? Everyone, this is Mordelia, my sister. Mordelia, this is Penny and Shepard, and this is Simon.” 

We shake hands. She eyes me up and down. 

“You shagging my brother?” 

I feel myself turn bright red. 

“Mordelia!” Baz hisses. “I knew it was a mistake to invite you. I rescind your invitation effective immediately. Please fuck off at once.”

“That means yes,” Mordelia nods, smugly. Penny can barely contain her laughter and Baz looks like he’s about to throttle someone.

“He’s kind of a grumpy bugger, isn’t he?” Mordelia says, nodding towards Baz. “Oooh, yay! Plonk!” she says before charging off towards the table with the wine. 

“Crowley, this is going to be a nightmare.” 

“I like her,” Penny laughs. 

“Of course you would. Of course,” Baz shakes his head and looks exasperated. 

Mordelia, it turns out, has just finished her first year studying fashion in London. 

“I made trousers for two months. _Two months!_ Can you believe it? Just pair after pair of straightforward trousers. What a waste of time.” 

“What would you have rather been making?” 

“Well, I have an idea for a collection of knitwear to be made on knitting machines I’ve purposefully programmed with bugs, so that the pieces are guaranteed to come out wonky and never be the same twice. Brilliant, right? It’s a meditation on mechanisation and the industrial revolution through-”

“Is she always like this?” Penny whispers. 

“ _Always_ ,” Baz replies. 

Mordelia rolls her eyes and stomps off to get another glass of wine. 

**Baz**  
Tonight has gone well. I’ve sold a third of my work in one night, with requests for prints from several individuals, the email of someone who would like to commission a portrait, and a long list of people signed up for my mailing list. 

The gallery is clearing out, it’s only my Sword of Mages family and Mordelia now. At some point Simon loosened his tie and popped the top buttons on his collar. Which, of course, only manages to make him look more delicious.

“So, where to now, artiste?” Mordelia asks me, shrugging her jacket back on. 

“Well, home, probably.” 

“Not out dancing? No wild celebratory afterparties? This isn’t very Andy Warhol of you, big brother.” 

“No, we’re old Mordelia, and we get tired easily,” I reply.

“Hey, speak for yourself!” Penny grumps. “Shep and I look too good to just go home. We’re definitely going out. Want to tag along Mordelia?” 

“Love to!” she says. Oh Crowley, Penny and Mordelia? That’s a match made in hell. 

“You two old men headed home? Going to fix yourselves a nice warm cup of Bovril and get to bed early?” Mordelia laughs, moving to stand beside the Bunces. It’s us against them, now.

“Yeah, something like that,” Simon replies, while reaching down and pinching my behind. I practically yelp when he does it. 

Mordelia wraps me up in another one of her massive, death grip hugs once we’re on the pavement outside the gallery. 

“Sorry dad didn’t come,” she whispers while she holds me too tight.

“I never expected he would,” I whisper back. “Thank _you_ for coming, though. It means a lot, little puff.” 

“I’m proud of you, brother,” she says, quietly. Then she shoves me away aggressively. “Now piss off home, you old geezers.” 

We laugh and watch as the Bunces and Mordelia head off down the street to find or create who knows what kind of trouble. 

“So, Snow. Would you like to come back to my place and have look at my etchings?” I ask, raising my eyebrow. 

“Didn’t I just spend the entire evening looking at your etchings?” Simon laughs. 

“No, Simon. It's a euphemism.” 

"It is?"

"Yes."

“For what?” he asks innocently, blue eyes sparkling.

"...you're being purposefully obtuse, aren't you?"

"Yes," he smiles, and it feels dangerous.

"Well?"

"Sure, I'll come back to yours, Baz. Once we’re there you can show me whatever you’d like. Etchings or otherwise.” 


	18. The Turret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The World of Mages reveals itself, full colour tattoos, and two boys in a room at the top of a tower. Sometimes the end is the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...here we are. 
> 
> I reference a couple Einstürzende Neubauten songs in this chapter. The first is Blume, which is my official theme song for this fic. It has everything: it's soft yet sharp, it has metaphors of humans as flowers, and the power held in saying someone's name.  
> The band have done the song in multiple languages, so I'll link them all (spotify links) here.  
> Einstürzende Neubauten's Blume  
> [in French](https://open.spotify.com/track/7qFuPlQHYaj3wlKl44MDQe?si=JfeUFyAkTkSg1fx15jGYnQ)  
> [in English](https://open.spotify.com/track/463mzGsveAp7A70TJcvcDI?si=q6Bdf1mWTQ2o2Kb93tmyAQ)  
> [in Japanese](https://open.spotify.com/track/33ppBMfn44cmzDicRYwUtz?si=ZEwgbA40QDqGSikIrhUtdQ)
> 
> I also reference this song: [Einstürzende Neubauten's Alles](https://open.spotify.com/track/2nbecUSy7UvZWF5AWQVQzm?si=35SBAdvmRHSPyQVs9Z8RkQ). Alles translates to everything, and I like to think Baz would sing this song at Simon in German, before they'd gotten together, absolutely annoying the shit out of him. Simon, of course, not realizing it's basically Baz shouting about Simon being his everything. 
> 
> Bonus song, which I sang to myself while writing the entirety of the chapter The Garden (the one with Baz's tattoo reveal) [Einstürzende Neubauten's The Garden](https://open.spotify.com/track/4AIDG8oQzGYqnr6v01f8i5?si=lwUftQ_oTTOnNq6SyjTBwA)
> 
> Ok, now that I've alienated everyone by throwing Baz's (my) odd taste in German music at you. Let's do this thing. I promise a happy ending.

**Baz**  
We’re lounging at my flat when I decide to bring up the idea of Simon publishing his World of Mages for what feels like the hundredth time in the many weeks we've been dating. I keep bringing it up, and he keeps kiboshing it. He must not realise who he’s up against, because I will go to war with him for the World of Mages. It deserves to be seen. 

I’m sitting on the sofa facing him, my feet stuffed up underneath his thigh for warmth. He lets me do it. In fact, if I don’t do it he’ll often grab my ankles and stuff my feet under him. It’s rather endearing. So much about him is. 

“Alright, so you’re definitely not interested in doing a book. How about a blog? Collect it all together for people to see online?” I suggest. “It does seem to be an ever-changing world. A blog would be a good way to do it.”

“People don’t want to see my stuff. They’re just little scribbles.” 

“They’re most certainly not _just_ anything, Simon. Your work is exceptional. I really do think you’re kind of a secret genius.” 

He glances at me, as if checking to see I’m not taking the piss. I couldn’t be more earnest.

“Who would care about it?” 

“Who wouldn’t? I do, and I’m a horrible, grumpy bastard.”

He chews on his lip. “What if nobody looks at it?”

“Then nobody looks at it. Nobody’s looking at it _now_.” 

He snorts. 

“Simon,” I say, scooting myself forward closer to him. “What if people _do_ look? What if it means something to them? What if it brings people joy, or comfort, or entertains them? That all has value.” 

He reaches out and rubs his hand up and down my calf while he thinks.

“Alright, what would it take to do it? Buy a website or something? I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Well, as it happens, I took the liberty of buying a domain for you about a month ago.” 

He shifts, turning his whole body to look at me. He drapes his arm over the back of the sofa, leans forward towards me, and stares me down. I try to look back confidently, but I feel nervous. Did I overstep? Are we going to have a row?

“You bought a website for me?”

“Yes. It wasn’t expensive. And your work deserves to be seen. I’ve made it very clear it’s been a personal goal of mine to convince you to make this happen. I knew it was only a matter of time before I won.” 

We stare each other down some more. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

“Please be less good to me. It makes my heart hurt, and I don’t know what to do with it,” Simon laughs. 

“Nope. Going to continue to be good to you until you burst. Sorry, that’s just the way it has to be.” 

“Alright, that seems fair,” he nods. His curls bounce, and I reach out and run my fingers through them. I’ll never grow tired of being able to do that. 

“Do we have to work on the website now, Baz, or could I kiss you for a bit first?”

“Oh, please. Kissing first, coding after.” 

**Simon**  
“You’ve been holding out on me,” I say to Baz as we’re closing up the shop one night. It’s just he and I. Shep swung by earlier and picked up Penny. 

“I believe you’ll find, especially after the things we did last night, I’m not holding out on you in the _slightest_ , Simon,” he responds, arching an eyebrow at me, and launching a Dettol soaked wipe neatly into the bin without even looking. 

Yes, well. We did do quite a few…things…last night. I feel myself start to blush at the memory.

“That’s not what I’m talking about, Baz. You know how to do colour tattoos. _Beautiful_ colour tattoos, in fact. You did those incredible pink and white camellias on your thigh.”

He told me they represent desire and passion. And he tattooed them on his thigh. Baz Pitch, you set me on fire. 

“What are you getting at? You want me to start offering full colour tattoos here at the shop? Not going to happen.” 

“No, I mean, _my_ tattoo. The Three of Swords.” 

“What about it?” 

“I want you to fill it in. I want you to fill in the heart.” 

He stops what he’s doing. 

“You want me to fill in the heart?” 

“Yes. Red please.” 

“…I don’t do colour tattoos,” he says, staring at me. I can’t read his expression.

“I think you should make an exception,” I stare right back.

We do this a lot, just stare at one another. I think we're still figuring out how to be together.

“Fine,” he finally breaks the silence. “But, you have to come back to my flat for me to do it. I’m not having you getting turned on in the shop again.” 

“That horse left the barn the moment we starting snogging, mate.” 

"And if we do this, I'm doing the whole thing in colour. There's no half-measures with me," his grey eyes are still locked with mine. I think there's more meaning to what he's saying than what he's _actually_ saying.

Which is good, because I think there's more meaning in what _I'm_ saying, too.

But who's to know? I'm shit with words.

"Alright. Let's do it. Tonight."

We go back to his flat once we’re finished cleaning the shop, and he gets all his kit set up. Then he kneels in front of me and begins methodically filling in the color on my tattoo.

“Thank you for doing this.”

“Only for you.” 

I reach out while he’s working, and run my hand along his hair. He has it pulled up the way he always does when he’s tattooing. He lets me touch him, and I know it won’t distract him. He’s too good to get distracted.

I love him so much. He’s everything I never knew I needed or wanted. Sharp, ferocious, sweet, and soft. He challenges me. He pushes me. He makes me see myself as more than I am. Better than I am. He tells me I’m the hero of the story, and when he says it I almost believe him.

“Baz…” I start. 

He doesn’t look up from his work. “Hmm?”

“I love you.” It's the first time I've managed to properly say it.

He stops the tattoo machine immediately and looks up at me. He’s so handsome, so beautiful, so much of everything. 

“Sorry. That was bad timing, wasn’t it?” I rub the back of my neck nervously. 

He swallows. I can see it. 

“I’m literally kneeling before you, shading in a heart tattoo _I gave you_ with red ink. If you think this is a bad time to tell me you love me, then you don’t know me very well.” 

I beam at him. He beams back, and all my walls crumble. There’s nothing left to protect me. I’m done for.

“I love you too, Simon. Of course I do.” 

I lean forward and kiss him. It’s awkward, because I don’t want to lean onto my fresh tattoo, and Baz can’t really do much of anything with his hands because he’s gloved up and holding his machine, but it’s perfect. Because it’s us. It’s too much, and not enough. It’s ridiculous, and wonderful, and idiotic. 

“Now get back to work,” I snap at him, leaning back in my chair and resting my hands behind my head. 

“It’s not too late for me to fuck up this tattoo on purpose, Simon.” 

“Nah, you love me too much to do that.” 

“I really do.” 

**Baz**  
Penelope and I meet up early at the shop on the morning of the 19th of June. We’ve been plotting together for weeks via text. Simon is clueless. 

We decorate the shop together, giggling all the while (giggling? Me? Surely not.) and then we turn off all the lights and lie in wait for Simon. 

He arrives early, as always. 

“Surprise!” we shout, as he turns on the lights. 

He yelps, and then starts laughing uncontrollably. 

“So, you weren’t kidding about a Peppa Pig theme, were you?”

“I was not kidding about the Peppa Pig theme,” I say, kissing him on the nose. 

Penny and I have covered the shop in a ridiculous array of children’s birthday party decorations. There’s bunting and streamers hanging from the ceiling and a ridiculous number of balloons tied to the arms of his tattoo chair. It’s his fault for leaving the arms on, they’ve given us so much real estate for the balloons.

“Only one problem,” he laughs, eyeing up the two foot tall Peppa Pig balloon currently sitting in the seat of his tattoo chair.

“Which is?” 

“Today isn’t my birthday. My birthday is the 21st.” 

“As I recall, you said you _think_ your birthday is the 21st, but it might actually be a couple days before. So we’re going to celebrate over the next three days, just to be safe. Consider them make-up birthdays, owed to you by the universe and karma.”

“Brilliant plan, isn’t it?” Penny chimes in. 

Simon is beaming. He could power a city with that smile. 

“Baz, Penny…this is…”

“I know, I know. Exceptional. Extraordinary. We’re the greatest people in the history of the world,” I laugh.

Simon levels me with a serious look in his eye. “Yeah. Yes. You are.” 

Then he rushes over, grabbing us both up into a crushing hug. 

“C’mon! You’re going to break my glasses!” Penny shouts. It comes out muffled because her face is currently being smashed into Simon’s chest. 

He lets us go, and then he stands there, beaming, lighting up the room with his smile.

“As you are owed some birthdays, we figure we'll give you three of them, one for each decade. Today is your 0-10 years old birthday. Thus, the Peppa Pig decor,” I say, flicking poor Peppa’s ear. 

“And tomorrow?” asks Simon. 

“Tomorrow is your teenage birthday party,” Penny laughs. “We’re going to take you out and get you pissed! I’m thinking Buckfast and Tesco’s own brand vodka in the park!”

Simon laughs. 

“And on the 21st?” 

“Well, that’s your adult birthday. So we’ll do adult things.” 

“Takeaway and an early night?” he laughs. 

I go to him, lean into his space and whisper in his ear. He groans dramatically. 

“Eww, I do not want to know…” Penny says, throwing her hands up before her in a show of disgust.

“Calm down, Pen. He says he’s booked me a massage for that day, to work all the kinks out of my back. You know how fucked our backs get from bending over clients tattooing.”

Well, sure. I said something that used _some_ of those same words.

He looks around the room, between Penny, me, and Peppa. 

“I’m—I’m really grateful for you both,” he says, his voice a little husky. 

Penny rolls her eyes. “Don’t make a scene, Simon.” 

“Now, to important matters. Cake for breakfast, love?” I ask. 

“Cake for breakfast.” Simon nods seriously, already twirling his damn knife open. 

**Simon**  
We’ve spent most evenings the last couple weeks working on the blog for the World of Mages. Baz helped me scan in high res images of all my work and upload and tag and organise each piece. Then once all the work was in, he sat with his fancy laptop in his lap, and his hair piled in a bun, and typed up my descriptions as I told him about each piece or scribble. He nodded and asked questions as we went to get me to elaborate. I don’t think I could have told the stories properly without him; he helped me use my words. 

Then he set it up to automatically post twice a week. Reliably a new piece of art, or idea I imagined, or a childhood doodle will appear on the blog along with an explanation. I’m glad he set it up that way. If it were up to me, I’d probably post twice, then forget it existed. He’s ruthlessly organised.

“So, what do we do next?” I ask, once the site is live. 

“Next? Well, I’ve worked up a message for our mailing lists, and I think everyone at the shop should post about it on their social media...” 

I pull my phone out of my pocket to get started.

“...and then I think you should move in with me.” 

My phone tumbles out of my hands to the floor. The screen cracks.

Dammit, that was a new phone.

I turn to look at Baz. I think he's struggling to keep himself in one piece right now. It’s subtle, but I can see it in the corner of his eyes and in the tug of his mouth. I think the effort of being bold, of asking for what he wants, might actually tear him apart. 

“You were complaining the other day about your landlord, right? And your rental agreement is up at the end of next month. I think you should move in with me, Simon. My flat is up at the end of September, then we can look for a new place together. A bigger place, with studio space for the both of us. Is it…is it too soon to think of that? It is, isn’t it…” 

He’s finished speaking and is sucking on his canines. A sure sign he’s nervous. He looks at me and gives me the sweetest, shyest smile.

A lingering, cruel part of me roars up and urges me to hassle him for old time’s sake, make him work for it. To tease him, and bicker, and argue.

I shove that part of me down a flight of stairs. 

“Yeah, I…Yes! Let’s do that.” 

**Penny**  
Baz just entered the shop. It’s mid-summer, and he’s not due to work today, but he’s just strolled in off the street. He’s wearing jeans, has his hair pulled up, and is in the process of tucking his sunglasses up high on his head. 

That’s nothing to remark on, really. He often comes by the shop on his days off to take Simon out for lunch. And he's always dressed well.

No, the remarkable thing is he’s wearing a short sleeved button down shirt. He’s even got the sleeves cuffed to reveal more of his arms. I’ve never, ever, seen Baz wear a short sleeved shirt. I’ve never even seen him push up his sleeves! I’ve never seen his tattoos! Dear merciful...they’re exceptional! Why would he hide them?! 

“Afternoon, Bunce. Simon around? We were supposed to go for lunch.” 

“Hey, Pen, could you add more cartridges to our supply order? I know I've…” Simon asks, walking out of the storage room. His words die in his mouth, though. I don’t blame him. 

“Simon! Ready for lunch?” 

“Your arms.”

“Please don’t eat my arms for lunch.” 

“Your _arms_ , Baz! I can _see_ them.”

“Yes. Very observant. I have two of them. They’re on either side of my body. Lunch?” 

“Not your arms! What’s _on_ them!”

“Some arm hair? Body hair is perfectly natural, love,” Baz says, with a wicked smile on his face. He’s playing this off as if it’s not a massively big deal.

“ _Your tattoos, you idiot!_ You’ve got your arms out and you’re showing the world your tattoos!”

“Should I cover up?” Baz smiles coyly. 

“Crowley, no!” Simon is smiling like an idiot. 

“Wait, did you just say _‘Crowley’_?” I shout. That’s Baz’s thing. 

Baz is showing his tattoos. Simon is saying Crowley. What in the _actual hell_ is happening right now?!

“I think he did, Bunce. I think Simon just said ‘Crowley’. Clearly he’s spending entirely too much time with me. I apologise for my corrupting influence.” Baz smiles a ridiculous, feral smile.

Simon slams down the container of cartridges at his workstation and advances on Baz. Then he grabs him around the waist, hoists him up, and holds him just a few inches off the ground. Baz has to lean heavily on Simon’s shoulders to not fall backwards. 

“Put me down,” Baz says, matter-of-factly, trying to hold back a smile.

“No,” Simon replies. He juts out his chin. That’s his challenge face, I know it well enough by now. “Kiss me.” 

I look away. Let them have their moment. The shop is empty, why not let them be young(ish) and in love?

“I’m proud of you. You’re letting everyone see how beautiful you are,” Simon whispers. 

“I’m letting everyone see a few tattoos, Snow, let’s not overreact.” 

“No, I’m with Simon on this one!” I chime in, not caring if they know I’m eavesdropping on their conversation. “This is rather a big deal. Mr Dark and Moody is the human equivalent of the Chelsea Flower Show. I think that’s cause for some fuss and attention.” 

Simon laughs and sets him down. I gesture for Baz to come to me so I can inspect his tattoos. He rolls his eyes, but does eventually saunter over, extending his arms. I tie my hair up, and push my glasses down my nose. This is serious business.

“Gorgeous. These are absolutely gorgeous,” I say. “I can understand why you’d want to hide them, just for practical reasons. There’s almost no fading in the colour whatsoever. You said this one is 8 years old? The lack of sun exposure is preserving them nicely.”

“Oi!” Simon shouts. “This is a big step for him, getting his arms out like this. Don’t scare him back into hiding again from fear of the sun!” 

“I’m not scared of the sun, Snow. I’m not _actually_ a vampire,” he drawls. “Also, I’ve put on quite a lot of sunblock.” Baz winks at me and I release his arms. “Almost a reckless amount.”

“Come here, Petal,” Simon says. Baz snorts, but smiles, and goes to hold his hand. Petal? These boys are so soft now. Who even are they? What happened to all their sharp edges? I’m going to have to start a fight between them to restore their equilibrium.

“Bunce, you have time to get lunch?” Baz asks. 

“I won’t intrude,” I shake my head. 

“You’re not intruding, you’re family,” Baz smiles. 

Dammit, these two soft boys are going to kill me. 

I grab my stuff and we head out of the shop. On our walk I think of all the ways I could start an argument between them. Just a little one. A fun one.

Maybe it’s finally time to tell them I’m pregnant. Then I could set them to arguing over who’d make a better godfather. 

(Simon. Simon will be the godfather.)

**Simon**  
He’s already waiting outside the flat when I get down, leaning against the car and looking cool as anything with his shirtsleeves rolled up, his dark sunglasses on, and his hair half up and half down. 

“You’re early,” I say. “That’s my thing.”

“If we’re both early it cancels one another out.” 

He grabs my rucksack from me in one hand, and with the other he cups my chin and pulls me up into a kiss that is over far too quickly. That’s alright. We have the next three days to make up for it. 

“Need me to bring up directions on my phone?” I ask. He’s holding the door open for me. He still hasn't told me where we're going. This is my (un)sneaky way of trying to sus it out.

“No, love, I’ve got it,” he gestures to the dash and I see he’s already set up his phone. 

“Is that so I can’t play my music?” I laugh as he gets into the car. 

“Simon, if I wanted to listen to someone smash bin lids against a brick wall and scream in two minute bursts, I’d go to Camden on the weekends.” 

I laugh and thumb through the playlist he has up on his phone. 

“Alright, well, now you’re just taking the piss. I know for a fact this band played _actual_ bin lids on one of their albums.” I hold his phone up with Einstürzende Neubauten’s _Blume_ brought up on the playlist. He laughs and starts up the car as I press play. 

“Yes, but they’re from _Berlin_ , darling. That means their bin lids are _avant-garde_.” 

We roar out of the parking space. Baz is a suspiciously good driver. 

“Who taught you to dri-” I start to ask him once we’re on the road. Then I have the most brilliant thought. “Please, _please_ tell me you didn’t learn to drive on a tractor?!” 

Baz bites his lips and tries to keep his laughter in. 

“Crowley, I can’t take it. You’re too much,” I laugh. 

“My father also had a lovely vintage Land Rover on the farm.” 

“Is _vintage_ just posh slang for a busted old piece of shite?”

“Chickens kept trying to lay their eggs under the tires. What do you think?” he laughs and indicates and switches lanes deftly.

He’s such a study in contrasts. I’ll never figure him out, no matter how long I try. And I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of trying.

It isn’t a terribly long drive, just a few hours, and for a while we bicker about music. He sings along in German, _loudly_ , to a song by that same band that does the flower song I like, _Blume_. I can't pronounce their name. He can. Of course. Then we argue about tattoo trends, and his deplorable taste in travel sweets, and it makes the time fly. 

“Baz, you couldn’t be more wrong on this. Maltesers are the ultimate travel sweet.” 

“Incorrect. Chocolate is _always_ the wrong choice. If you drop a chocolate it’ll smash and melt into the interior. Disgusting. The ultimate travel sweets are, in the following order, vegan Fizzy Cola Bottles, vegan Jelly Babies, vegan Wine Gums.”

“Wine Gums?! They taste of vinegar!” 

“Perhaps. But I like them.” 

“What about a Dip Dab?” 

“While driving? You’re mental.”

"I could help? I could stick the lolly in your mouth, if you like," I say wickedly.

"Thanks for offering to be my little helper, but no."

“Guess that rules out a Sherbet Fountain, too.” 

“No, the grotesque combination of liquorice and sherbet ruled out a Sherbet Fountain. It was self-eliminating.” 

We’re still laughing as Baz turns off the main road and down a hard-packed dirt drive. 

He didn’t tell me exactly where we were going, just to leave these days open in my schedule, and pack a bag. 

So I left these days open and packed a bag. I trust him. He’s never led me astray. And he certainly hasn’t now. Our mystery destination isn't a mystery anymore.

Before us rises the most beautiful old stone building, with a turret sprouting from the side, jutting up into the air. It’s practically glowing in the late afternoon sun. It looks lit up with magic.

I can’t help myself, I reach out and put my hand on Baz’s arm, fingers digging into the meat of him.

“Is this it?” 

“This is it, Simon,” I can practically hear the smile on his face, though I can’t pull my eyes away from the turret to look. “It’s ours for the long weekend.”

It’s incredible, it looks like a ruin that was allowed to go just far enough into ruination to be moody and appealing, but then snatched back from the brink before all the stones could tumble away into nothing.

“Remember when we were in Edinburgh, and we talked about castles converted into hotels?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I started looking for one we could stay in that weekend.” 

I shake my head a little and turn to look at him. He’s grinning madly. 

“Wait, the weekend we got together you started planning a mini-break for us? To a castle?”

“Well, this isn't a castle. It's technically a folly with a tower. But, yes.” 

"And it's all ours?"

"All ours. Just us."

I can’t stop the smile that’s cracking my face in two. My cheeks hurt. It’s too much love and joy to bear. 

“You’re a hopeless romantic, aren’t you?” 

“Shh, Simon. Don’t tell anyone,” he grins. “It will ruin my dark and brooding aesthetic.”

The inside is gorgeous, but I don’t really care much about open plan kitchen/living spaces, or glass-walled conservatories, or whether or not it has an AGA. I only have eyes for the turret.

Baz races me up. 

It’s glorious. The bed is up here, tucked in a circular room with a fireplace. The windows look out over the countryside. I stand at one and stare out. There’s not much else around us. Trees. Fields. A dirt road that meanders off into nothing. 

“The website said this folly was built by some Duke who wanted to show off, so he had this constructed on a corner of his estate. He intended for it to look like a crumbling medieval ruin, but it was really built in the late 18th century.”

“Well, he was a rich, ridiculous genius, because this is amazing.” 

Baz stands behind me, enveloping me in his arms, and leaning his chin on my shoulder. I reach forward to push the window open, and a soft breeze enters the room. I close my eyes, and feel Baz's heart beating where we're pressed together. Then I turn and pull him to me, holding him close, and kissing him with everything I’ve got. 

— 

It’s late now, the sun has long since set, and we’re laying in bed with the windows still open. I’m staring through to the sky full of stars, and they seem close enough to touch.

Baz is curled up against me, his leg hitched up over mine, and he's tracing slow lines up and down my arm. I feel him give a little shiver as my hand grazes gently along the curve of his spine. 

“Cold? I can close the window.” I start to shift out of bed before Baz has even answered, but he places his arm across my chest, and pulls me back down to him.

“No, not cold. I’m content. Happy.” 

We lay there for a moment, gently touching one another, and breathing. Peacefully existing in the same space together without the animosity that’s marked so much of our time together.

“I like being here in this tower with you. It feels right,” I whisper. 

“It does. Will you put this in your World of Mages the next time you’re daydreaming? Will you imagine something magical happening here?” he asks, gently kissing my cheek. 

I think about it for a moment, imagining what magic a room like this might hold.

I close my eyes and think about a turret that’s home to two magical, lonely boys. Two boys who have lost so much, who life has broken all of its promises to. Two boys separated from one another by their own ridiculous preconceived notions, and their foolish pride. I think of their fighting, and their anger, and their sadness. I think about their rage, and how it’s not really for one another, but for a world that taught them boys must be hard and cruel. I think about a world that taught them to hide their flowers, and their softness, and their love, and their dreams.

Baz strokes my cheek. “Where did you go, Simon? Off imagining better, more magical worlds?”

I turn to him, push a loose wave of his dark hair up off his face. I kiss the point of his widow's peak, and then run the pad of my thumb along his lips. 

“Baz, I can’t imagine anything better or more magical than this.” 

He sighs, and then he kisses me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for caring about my version of these lovely fellows, and for reading. 
> 
> I might go back and clean up some things in this fic over the next few days, so I apologize if you get update emails when I repost chapters. (dunno how it works)


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